


the light on the shore

by owilde



Series: shadowhunters historical AUs (various pairings) [5]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Titanic, Everyone lives/Nobody dies, F/F, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, I Aimed For Historical Accuracy, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Romance, Sexual Harrassment (not between the main ships), Watch Me Try To Write Convincing Early 20th Century Dialogue, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-17 01:50:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13648947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: When Simon sees her off on the 10th of April, 1914, Clary thinks off all that she's leaving behind - her mother, her friends, the country she's used to calling home - and she feels like she's standing alone on thin ice. But when fate intervenes, and she meets Isabelle Lightwood, new doors are opened; and Clary wants to know where they might lead.





	the light on the shore

**Author's Note:**

> oookay. i started drafting this back during last year, and now it's finally done. thank fuck.
> 
> i proof-read this but i mean it's 2 am, so. who knows.

Her dress felt too tight. Clary tried to take deep breaths, and loosen the corset, but she still felt as though she was suffocating. Why had she chosen this gown, out of all the ones in her closet? She could’ve gone with the velvet crimson dress, it would’ve looked better. And she wouldn’t have been suffocating.

Simon was fussing about with her luggage behind her, trying to carry the ones she couldn’t. Sweat was trickling down his forehead. Clary felt bad for making him help her, but then, she’d owe him a painting or two, so she felt it was justified. His back was crouched under the weight of the suitcases.

“What in the ever-loving hell are you carrying in these?” Simon asked, shooting Clary a desperate glance.

She stopped and set the cases she was carrying down. Simon followed suit, wiping at his forehead with his sleeve. They were halfway through the docks with time to spare still. The ship wouldn’t leave for another two hours at least. Clary couldn’t contain the excited smile blooming across her face.

“Art supplies,” she answered to Simon’s question. “I’m carrying art supplies, and clothes.”

Simon looked at the suitcases and pulled a face. “More like rocks,” he said. “Or, I don’t know, a body.” He paused, and his look turned considerate. “Maybe you murdered Raphael and now you’re going to leave him in the ocean. Is that it?”

Clary laughed, hiding it behind her gloved hand. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “If I murdered him, there would be no body to hide afterwards.”

“That is true,” Simon said in agreement. He shook his head. “I still don’t understand how you could need so much on a single trip.”

The sun burned down on them from above. Clary adjusted her hat and shielded her eyes from the light, squinting at Simon. “I’m staying in New York for a while,” she explained. “What would I do without my supplies?”

She picked up her suitcases and began walking again. Her heels clacked against the stone of the docks in a rhythm that she had come to find comforting. It reminded her that she was making progress, in an odd way. That if she heard her footsteps, it meant that she was going somewhere.

They made it to the drawbridge with only minor grumbling from Simon’s part. He stopped beside Clary and let out a sigh. “She sure is a beauty,” he said with an appreciative tone, eyeing the Titanic.

Clary had to agree. The ship looked magnificent in the morning sunlight; it almost glowed. She tried to burn the image of the hull to her memory so that she could sketch it later. Water lapped against its sides calmly, deep blue against black and white. People were already boarding it or milling about by the decks, waving to their friends and families with white handkerchiefs.

“It is,” she said out loud. “It’s incredible. Can’t even imagine what it’ll look like from the inside.”

“I can,” Simon said. “Rich.”

Clary swatted at his arm, but smiled. “Simon, please.”

He shrugged, still eyeing the Titanic. “It’s true enough. It’ll be full of boring, elite families who can afford a new life, while those of us who are barely scraping by will have to settle for never seeing anything outside of England. I don’t even hate England, but America… that’s something else, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Clary agreed quietly. “Something else, indeed.”

They hugged; Clary held on to Simon for a little too long, memorising the curve of his back and the set of his shoulders. She had drawings of him in one of the suitcases, but it still felt pertinent to try and remember precisely what her best friend was like. She didn’t know when they’d see next time, if they did. New York was so far away.

He waved her goodbye as she struggled to carry her luggage up the drawbridge by herself. She saw a glimpse of him over her shoulder as she turned to look while adjusting her hold; by the time she made it to the deck of the ship, Simon was gone. She felt her throat close up, and swallowed the longing she already felt.

She didn’t remain to wave goodbye to anyone.

Her room was as luxurious as she had expected. She had a view outside, to the sea – it stretched on and on seemingly infinitely, like a blue canvas. Her bed looked soft and inviting, especially after the lack of sleep on the previous night. But instead of sleeping, Clary opened her suitcases and began to sort her belongings to closets and drawers the best she could. She left some of her drawings in one of the cases and locked it, pushing it to the corner of her room.

Satisfied, she sat down on her bed and let out a sigh, staring at the room.

She didn’t know what to do with so much space. Back at home, she’d been happy with her own small painting room. It helped her focus when it was just her and the bare white walls and the canvas, unexplored and filled with potential. She was free to paint her own vision, whatever that was on any particular day. It was her world to create and control. She enjoyed it more than anything.

But her room here was so _full_. There were flowers everywhere, armchairs she would never use, a couch she would never lay on, paintings here and there that she appreciated but didn’t care for, because she knew they’d been chosen on merits that had nothing to do with true creative or artistic value. They were there because they made it look richer.

Clary let herself fall backwards, hitting the mattress. It gave way under her; it almost felt like she was sinking into it. The roof of her room stared back at her in silence.

 

As Clary watched Southampton fall behind, an uneasy feeling settled in her stomach. She was leaving everything behind that she’d felt was safe and reliable in her life. Simon and the band that she’d sung with a few times out of curiosity – was it selfish, to leave her only friend behind in pursuit of something she deemed better? And her ill mother, fighting a losing battle for her life. Was Clary selfish for leaving her behind, too? She thought so. If she’d been a better friend and a better daughter she would’ve stayed and helped them to the best of her ability.

But she wasn’t a better friend or a daughter. She saw that her mother wasn’t going to live for much longer; it was only a matter of time. Simon would find new friends, _better_ friends, and forget about Clary. At least, that was what she hoped for. She didn’t think she’d be back.

The sudden home-sickness and horror at the finality of it all made Clary want to throw up. The striking realisation of _this was goodbye_ made her eyes prickle with tears. She blinked them away, keeping her eyes fixated on the disappearing shoreline. She wouldn’t cry in front of all these people. It wouldn’t do.

She was suddenly thrown off her balance by someone knocking against her shoulder painfully. Clary turned to look, and found a man next to her, rubbing his shoulder. He was mumbling under his breath. He had light hair, and as he looked up at Clary, she noticed that his eyes seemed to be of different colours. She frowned.

“Could you watch your step, please?” She asked, her voice tight.

The man gave her a half-hearted glare. “I apologise for not having eyes at the back of my head,” he said, voice dripping with barely hidden distain. “I’ll do my best to grow some for the next occasion.”

Clary resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him. He was dressed sharply; another rich man, who thought they were entitled to anything and everything. “No need to be so dramatic,” she huffed. If this was going to be the sort of traveling companion she might expect, this journey would be something else entirely.

“Dramatic?” The man asked, one brow arched. “I’m sorry, but who do you—“

He was interrupted by a voice calling out behind him, further down the deck. “Jace!”

The man turned to look; Clary caught a glimpse of a smile as he did. Without turning back to Clary, he strode away and waved slightly at the person calling for him. As Clary watched, he hugged a woman with dark hair and a blinding smile, lifting her into the air a little in an almost twirl. They proceeded to talk. The woman shot Clary a curious look from over the man’s shoulder.

Clary turned her head away. The man – Jace – wasn’t worth her time right now.

Her mother had made her promise she’d try to find an eligible bachelor from abroad, to support her financially. Clary was starting to regret said promise. She was twenty-two; she didn’t want to marry yet, much less settle down. She wanted to paint, and see the world, explore it. She couldn’t do that as housewife.

She watched the horizon get swallowed up by the ocean, and just like that, England was gone. Clary pursed her lips and swallowed the emotions climbing up her throat. If she was going to make it in New York, she couldn’t afford to get caught up in emotions like this.

There was a gentle tap on her shoulder – a slight warning, before a figure leaned against the railing next to her. Clary turned to look. It was the woman the man had been hugging before. Her dark hair pooled down her back, almost glistening in the sunlight. She was wearing a deep blue dress, too light for the cool April weather but she didn’t seem to mind. It hugged her frame just right, Clary thought bitterly. She still felt suffocated in her own dress.

The woman wasn’t looking at her, but at the ocean. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” She asked quietly.

Clary felt confused. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

The woman laughed a little. “Silly of me,” she said. “I’m Isabelle Lightwood. I believe you had the misfortune of bumping into my brother just now – I wanted to apologise on his behalf. He forgets himself sometimes.”

“Oh.” Clary turned her head and saw Jace standing next to a taller man where she’d last seen him with Isabelle. He was scowling in their direction with his arms crossed; Clary got the impression that he wasn’t too happy about Isabelle talking to her. She turned her head away. “It’s not a problem, really.”

“Still,” Isabelle insisted. She turned to look at Clary, smiling brightly. “I didn’t catch your name?”

“Clarissa Fairchild. Call me Clary, please.”

“Clary,” Isabelle repeated. She seemed to be testing the name out. “I like it, it suits you.”

Clary didn’t know what to say. “I think Isabelle fits you just fine, as well.”

Isabelle laughed again, but it didn’t sound mean. She eyed the ocean again, sighing wistfully. “It is so gorgeous. Just miles and miles of vast nothingness.”

Clary agreed. She’d done loads of paintings about what she believed to be lurking underneath the beautiful surface of the sea – the horrors and wonders that it could be hiding. Simon had said that one day, they’d be able to explore the bottoms of the sea and discover what actually lay there. Clary wasn’t so certain she wanted to know; her own imagination was enough for her.

“Imagine what’s beneath,” she said aloud.

Isabelle hummed thoughtfully. “I’d imagine all sorts of horrible things,” she said lightly. “But then, that’s true for most people, as well.”

Clary let out a startled laughter. She glanced at Isabelle, who was laughing as well.

“It’s true enough,” Isabelle continued defensively. “People can be terrible.”

“We can,” Clary agreed. Her laughter dwindled into a small smile. “You’re an interesting person, Mrs. Lightwood.”

“Presumptuous,” Isabelle said, quirking a brow. “And false; I’m not married.”

“Oh.” Clary frowned, and looked over at the still scowling Jace. “I thought…”

Isabelle followed her line of sight, and burst into laughter. “Oh, no,” she shook her head vehemently. “Jace is my brother – and so is Alec, the mean one next to him.”

Clary flushed. “ _Oh_. I didn’t realise.”

Isabelle smiled warmly. “It’s alright. Most people assume I must be married.” Her voice turned into a mocking imitation of someone. “’You’re twenty-three, dear’, they say. ‘You must find a fiancé soon, before you’re too old and nobody wants you.’”

Clary giggled; Isabelle seemed pleased. “A spot-on impression of what talking to my mother feels like,” Clary said, smiling.

“I find mothers worry too much,” Isabelle said airily. Behind her, Jace was making impatient hand gestures. She noticed, and waved at him. “I think I’ll take my leave, before he has any horrible ideas.”

“I’ll see you later,” Clary said. She was tempted to shake Isabelle’s hand, but then thought it too formal. “Hopefully.”

Isabelle gave her a strange look. “I’m sure we’ll meet again, Clary.”

She left, and Clary was left standing by the railing, her hair flowing in the wind.

 

The dining hall was even more luxurious than her room had been – Clary found herself left breathless at the sight of all the crystals and mirrors and gold. She knew she’d need to draw it, later. The spacious room had pillars and an arching roof unlike anything she’d seen before. Waiters were moving between the tables expertly, holding trays of food and drinks. The sound of clinging silverware, laughter and talk filled out the entire hall.

The scene felt like it was lifted from a play, Clary thought. Or a dream.

She was appointed a table for two. She felt a twinge of sadness out of sitting there alone; she missed Simon. She wondered what he was doing at the moment – did they have a show tonight? Or was he cooped up in his apartment, missing her as much as she missed him? She hoped not. At the very least, she hoped Raphael was keeping him company.

Feeling frivolous amongst all the glamour of the ship, Clary ordered a glass of _château margaux_ red. It tasted just as she had expected – warm and full. She ate oysters and salmon, and drank a little too much. For entertainment, she kept watching the people around her.

There were families with their children running around. There were single men, sitting alone as she did, glancing at the women around them appreciatively. She noticed someone watching her, a brown-haired man possibly in his thirties who wore a pinstripe suit. He smiled; she quickly looked away, sipping her wine.

Her eyes fell on Isabelle. She was sitting with her siblings in a table for three, her head thrown back in laughter despite the annoyed looks she was garnering from around her. She was wearing a different dress from before, a black one with a plunging neckline decorated with colourful jewels. Her arms were covered with long gloves which reached past her elbows. Her hair, previously free, was now gathered up so that not a single curl had escaped.

She looked stunning. Clary noticed more than a few men eyeing her, but Isabelle seemed to pay it no mind; she kept talking with her brothers, a constant smile on her face. Clary noted with a smile that she, too, was holding a glass of red wine.

Their eyes met across the hall. Clary felt embarrassed, having been caught staring – but all Isabelle did was smile pleasantly at her and raise her glass slightly in a toast. Clary returned the gesture with a hesitant smile.

After dinner, she ventured out on to the decks. The cold sea air breeze blew against her skin and Clary shivered in her dress, rubbing at her arms up and down to keep herself warm. The water seemed ink black this time of the night, uncomfortably so. What had looked beautiful in the light of day now looked dangerous and uninviting.

She looked up at the sky. Stars were twinkling above her, filling the entire sky as far as she could see. Clary craned her neck to look around her. She spotted some constellations her mother had taught her about and smiled to herself.

There was something comforting about the stars. They were always there, night and day, watching over her. Clary didn’t believe in God, so her sense of security came from things like that, things she knew existed. The stars, her paints and brushes, the scar at the back of her hand she’d had since she was a child. Things that couldn’t disappear, things that kept her grounded. Those were the things she held dear to her.

She stood on the deck as the stars shined above her until the cold got too much.

 

***

 

Sunlight spilled in through the slightly open curtains, casting a beam across the floor and reaching the bed, a white stripe against dark red. Clary cracked one eye open and blinked blearily, still laying warm and content underneath her blanket. It felt like an embrace, enveloping her in its softness.

It couldn’t be too late, because her internal clock always woke her up in time for breakfast back at home – which just so happened to usually fall right after eight. She tilted her head to glance at the alarm clock beside the bed. She was right; it was quarter past.

Clary rolled over with a slight groan and buried her head into her pillow. She would’ve liked to stay in bed for a little longer, maybe even fall asleep again. She’d been having a pleasant dream about painting the sky with a large brush, filling the insides of clouds with watercolours that swelled and mixed. But breakfast wasn’t served forever, even on this ship, and besides, she felt hunger curling around her stomach.

Clary truly couldn’t wait for the days in New York when she’d be able to sleep for as long she wished to, and cook her own breakfast whenever she felt like it. She’d have breakfast for lunch, if she wanted to, living in her own apartment she’d earn by selling her art.

It seemed sort of funny to her that in none of the scenarios she pictured for the future did they feature a husband. Almost as if even her imagination was vividly against the concept of marriage.

 

The sea looked beautiful in the morning light, a stark contrast from the darkness of the previous night. Clary watched the tides roll back and forth in a comforting motion which reminded her strangely of a lullaby. It wasn’t foaming white and wild, but calmly and serenely. Clary could’ve almost pictured it possible for someone to take a smaller boat and go for a sail beside the ship. But then she remembered the horribly powerful propellers on the back of the ship, and thought against it.

She made her way to the dining hall. It looked less glamorous than before, which Clary thought was for the better – she wanted to focus on eating, and not gazing at the environment. Though, truth be told, it still looked magnificent even without the extravagant lighting and crystals.

Breakfast was served in bigger table groups, and Clary found herself sitting next to what appeared to her to be a married couple; at least they argued like one. She shrunk down in her seat as she listened to them, wishing, almost, that she could be assigned to a different table or disappear altogether.

“Magnus,” the woman was saying in a tight voice, “I thought this was supposed to be _fun_.”

The man snorted and took a sip of his champagne. Clary bristled; it wasn’t even midday, yet. “This _is_ fun, Catarina. The most fun.”

Catarina seemed unimpressed. Clary watched her stab a tomato with her fork. “You day drinking – no, sorry, _morning_ drinking isn’t my definition of fun.”

“Well, I can’t help it if you have bad taste,” Magnus mumbled. Clary didn’t think the woman heard him, because she didn’t reply, only continued assaulting her breakfast with her cutlery.

They continued to argue as Clary waited for her breakfast.

Just as she was about to decide she’d survive without it, someone tapped her lightly on the shoulder. She turned her head to look, coming face to face with Isabelle. She was dressed down in blue and copper dress with a hugging waistline and puff shoulders. It looked good on her, combined with a multitude of rings on her fingers and a piece of jewellery which settled on between her collarbones; an expensive looking blue gem. 

“Morning,” Isabelle said, straightening her back. She smiled at Clary, bright and unreserved. “There’s room in my table, if you want.” The offer came across as genuine. She glanced at Magnus from the corner of her eye, and her smile tightened. “Magnus. Surprising to see you up so early.”

Magnus eyed her warily, buttering a piece of toast. “What’s so surprising about it? I’m such an early bird.”

“He’s lying,” Catarina called out. “I had to wake him up. Apparently last night was full of exhausting twists for him.”

“Catarina,” Magnus sighed, exasperatedly. He pressed the bridge of his nose, as if holding off a headache. “We’ve discussed this – there’s no need to meddle in my private affairs—“

“Oh, they’re affairs, I’ll grant you that.”

Clary stood up amidst the arguing, and smiled faintly at Isabelle. “I’d love to join you,” she breathed out, glancing at Magnus and Catarina. “Lead the way.”

They walked through the dining hall together, their arms barely touching. Somehow, Isabelle had managed to get a smaller table at a secluded corner – it was just the two of them. Clary sat down opposite to her, and soon had her breakfast in front of her, along with a glass of orange juice.

Isabelle sipped her own drink, tilting her head as she eyed Clary. “You’re not a champagne in the morning kind of a person, either?” She asked teasingly.

Clary laughed. “No, not really. I’m more of a wine in the evening kind of a woman.”

Isabelle grinned. “Me too,” she said. “Nothing better than a glass of red.”

“Amen to that,” Clary mumbled. Her stomach growled, urging her to pick up a fork and start eating.

Isabelle pushed at her eggs with her fork and frowned grimly. “I didn’t know Magnus would be here as well.” At Clary’s questioning look, she clarified. “He’s friends with my brother, Alec. He’s the one who didn’t bump into you. I was just wondering what he was doing here.”

“Aren’t we all looking for a new start?” Clary suggested. It seemed, at least, that most people were. She could understand that; she was one of those people. Clary gestured towards Isabelle’s plate with her fork. “You should eat.”

“Yeah,” Isabelle said slowly. She set her cutlery down and took a reluctant bite out of her toast. “Maybe.”

They ate in silence for a while. The issue was clearly bothering Isabelle, who kept frowning at her eggs. Clary didn’t know what to say to cheer her up, so she elected for silence. She’d deemed it to be a safe option with Raphael, who could hold for hours on end without saying a word. Sometimes, it was better to let people come to their own conclusions instead of pressuring them to get there.

“Maybe Alec invited him,” Isabelle said after a while. She didn’t sound too happy about the prospect. “It would be like him.”

“Where is he, anyway?” Clary asked. She didn’t know how inviting Magnus would _be like_ Alec, but she thought it might’ve been too impolite to prod. “And Jace, too. I thought you would’ve shared breakfast.”

“Still asleep, most likely,” Isabelle replied with a shrug. It didn’t seem like she was too occupied with her brothers’ comings and goings. “They’re not big on early mornings. Might have something to do with the liberal amounts of alcohol consumed last night, too.”

Clary chuckled. Wine certainly always made her more tired. “You like mornings, then?” She asked.

Isabelle smiled, mostly to herself. “I like to watch the sun rise.”

Clary had always been fond of mornings. Her room’s windows back at home opened to the East, so she was used to seeing the sunrises of summer, along with its multitude of colours. Sometimes, she’d wake at the early hours of dawn so that she could try and paint along with the rising run – it was almost like a race, to see who would be finished first. The first time she’d done it was still her favourite, and she’d kept the picture with her. It was currently in one of her suitcases, a reminder of what she’d been like and what she could do.

It wasn’t that she doubted her own ability to paint, more so that she was afraid that one day she would wake up and pick a brush, only to find that she had nothing to say. She felt that all her paintings were like compressed books – they all told a story, a feeling, a relationship. Sometimes her own, sometimes imagined. She never wanted to run out of those stories. She dreaded the day she would.

“I missed it this morning,” Clary said, regretful. “But the beds in here are so irresistibly soft, I couldn’t make myself get up to see it.”

“I can imagine that,” Isabelle said. “I had the best sleep in years last night, to be honest.” She ate the last of her beans and leaned back in her chair, sighing contently. “I can’t understand how my brothers manage without a breakfast. It’s like a small lunch, but better.”

“Truly,” Clary agreed.

A waiter came in and collected their plates and cups away. Isabelle suggested they do a short walk along to promenade, and Clary agreed. She was eager to spend more time with Isabelle; she hadn’t made a new friend in quite some time, not after Simon had introduced her to Raphael.

The upper deck was mostly deserted, with most people still asleep or in the dining hall. They walked to the front of the ship and stopped by the railing, standing side by side. The sea opened in front of them as far as the eye could see, the blue glistening in the sun which had made its way halfway through the sky.

It looked breath-taking.

“I never thought I’d get to see anything like this,” Isabelle confessed quietly. Her arm was pressed against Clary’s, who didn’t shirk away from the contact.

“No?” Clary asked, not taking her eyes away from the water. The wind blew gently, and she tucked her hair behind her ear with her free hand.

“No,” Isabelle echoed. “My father, he… well, it’s not a fun story, I’m afraid. Maybe another time. Regardless, I thought I’d be stuck in London forever, staring at the same bleak, grey buildings and streets.” She paused, taking in a deep breath. “But here I am. On my way to the city of dreams.”

“Is it just you and your brothers?” Clary asked. “I don’t mean to pry, I was only wondering.”

“Just us,” Isabelle confirmed. “Our mom remained in London – she gets sea sick. And besides, she thought it best that we all get a chance to spread our wings away from London and away from her. She’d worry too much in New York.” She glanced at Clary with a curious look. “What about you? You were eating alone last night.”

Clary looked down, feeling something stuck in her throat. Her mind flashed to an image of her mother, lying in bed, her face ashen. Guilt crawled inside her chest. “Yeah,” she croaked, then cleared her throat. “Yeah, just me. My mom’s not doing too well. Tuberculosis. And I never knew my father, so.”

“I’m sorry.” Isabelle sounded genuinely upset on Clary’s behalf. She reached out to touch her shoulder. “If you ever want to talk…”

Clary nodded, and smiled weakly. “Thank you.”

They stood watching the waves in silence until Isabelle left to see whether her siblings were awake or not.

 

By midday, some clouds had gathered on the sky. Clary took her sketching book and some pencils and headed out to find a place to sit and draw in peace. It took her some time until she found a quiet corner, by the base of one of the funnels. She sat with the sketchbook in her lap and began to do some preliminary sketches of miscellaneous shapes she saw around her: railings, the edge of a lifeboat, the smoke curling in the air above the ship.

The sea air around her smelled strongly of salt, but Clary found she like it. It was such a strong contrast to the smoke and dirt of London that it was almost pleasant.

She still couldn’t quite comprehend all the colours around her. She was used to only seeing bright hues in her paintings, and in the summer days spent on the countryside. The scenery aboard the ship reminded her of those visits to the country, where the sky always seemed bluer and the grass greener.

She remembered how, when she and Simon had been children, they’d played hide and seek on the sea shores of Newquay. She’d always won, and she wondered now if it was because Simon had let her.

The memory of the two of them made Clary smile to herself. He’d always be her best friend, whether they ever met again or not.

Lost in thought, she began sketching Simon’s profile from memory, trying to recall the exact way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The last time she’d really seen him laugh, with no reservations, had been a little before she’d left.

They’d been spending time in Simon’s apartment. She’d been painting, sitting on his bed, because Simon never minded if some of the colour splashed on to his sheets. He’d been watching her, smiling to himself. Clary had said something, she couldn’t recall what – it hadn’t been particularly funny to her.

But Simon had laughed, holding to his sides, his eyes crinkled like they were in this picture. He’d laughed until he couldn’t no more, and then he’d said, out of breath, “God, I’ll miss you, Fray.”

Clary’s heart winced uncomfortably as she stared at the sketch of Simon caught in a moment of joy. Would she ever see him laugh again? Would she ever hear his voice, warm and calming since childhood?

“That your husband?” A voice asked from behind her, and Clary startled, nearly dropping the sketchbook.

Jace walked up from behind her and stopped next to her, craning his neck to see the sketch from a better angle. “Handsome,” he commented.

Clary closed the book, shooting Jace a glare. “He’s my friend,” she said, “and besides, it’s not any of your business.”

Jace raised his hands in surrender. He seemed to be in a better mood – a small smile was dragging at his lips, and his shoulders didn’t carry the tension of yesterday. He was dressed down in a white dress shirt that had its sleeves rolled up the elbow, and blue pants. “I didn’t come here to fight,” he said, letting his hands drop. “I came here to apologise for yesterday. I was being rude; it wasn’t my intention.”

He seemed genuine, and Clary couldn’t think of a reason for him to lie. She let her shoulders relax. “Apology accepted,” she said. Then she squinted her eyes at him. “Did Isabelle make you do this?”

Jace laughed, and leaned against the wall beside them, pushing his hands in his pockets. “No,” he assured her, still smiling. “Though she strongly recommended I try to _act more civilised_.” He made quotation marks with his fingers on the last three words.

“I’m sure she did.” Clary smiled. She eyed her sketchbook silently, then offered it to Jace. Her version of an olive branch. “Take a look, if you want to.”

He started skimming through the pages. Occasionally, his brows would fly up in surprise or admiration, Clary couldn’t tell. She felt nervous, though she had shown her work to many people before Jace.

He got the end of the book, and handed it back to Clary.

“You’re talented,” he said, crossing his arms. “No doubt about that.”

Clary huffed. “Thank you.”

He tilted his head in a similar way to Isabelle. “So, your best friend?”

Clary splayed her fingers on top of the cover of the sketchbook, and smiled. “Simon Lewis. We’ve been friends since childhood.” She paused, giving him a pointed look. “He’s in London, now.”

Jace made a sound of understanding. “You miss him.” It wasn’t a question. “So, no fiancé, then?” His tone changed into a flirtatious one.

Clary couldn’t resist the temptation to roll her eyes. “No fiancé,” she confirmed. “And I’m not looking for one, either, so don’t bother. I’m quite content with my art, thank you very much.”

“Shame,” Jace said airily. He winked at Clary. “I’d make a fine husband.”

“I’m sure you’ll make some woman very happy,” Clary said dryly.

Jace laughed, shaking his head. “Well, I damn well hope so,” he said. “I’m twenty-three, clock’s ticking.”

“There’s still time.”

He hummed. “I suppose,” he agreed. “I guess I’ll have to keep looking.” He pointed at the sketchbook. “Think you’d want to draw me?”

His grin was contagious, and Clary found herself smiling. “I only draw nice things.”

Jace made a shocked face. “I’m the nicest thing,” he argued.

“Debatable.”

“How rude of you.” But Jace was still smiling. “Maybe some other time, then.”

“Maybe,” Clary agreed. “There’s still a whole journey left, isn’t there?”

But she knew that if she were to draw any of the Lightwood siblings, it would be Isabelle, not Jace.

 

That evening, Clary found herself sitting in the lounge with a glass of Apple Fizz, twirling her finger around the rim of the glass. She was frowning down at the carpeted floor with an unhappy face. She’d tried to write a letter to Simon, before, about how everything was going – about the ship, about herself, about… well. That’s where she’d got stuck.

She’d tried to tell him about Isabelle, and the friendship the two seemed to be forging. Or, at least Clary was hoping they were. She was. She’d never had female friends, really, save for Dot. And while she adored Dot to death, they weren’t the type of friends to stay up all night talking, or share feelings. They were, more than anything, people who loved Jocelyn and therefore had to have come to tolerate and respect each other, and eventually, become friends. But it wasn’t voluntary – it wasn’t like this.

Clary didn’t understand the way she wanted to know more and more about Isabelle. They hadn’t talked more than a few times, but she was fascinating to Clary, already. She wanted to know about Isabelle’s friends, family, her ambitions and dreams. What she wanted to do in New York, what she had been doing in London. All of it, and everything in between, and everything she couldn’t even think of.

Clary took a sip of her drink and sighed. Had relationships always been this strange to her? She and Simon had become friends so easily, without a second thought. Being with Simon had been like breathing – easy, automatic, necessary. Her heart ached at the thought of him, back in London. She didn’t know what would be the best for the two of them – for Clary to sever their ties, and let him forget about her? Or for her to keep the memory of their friendship alive with letters for as long as she could, before they eventually dwindled into nothingness?

She didn’t know anything, anymore. Except that she wanted to see Isabelle again.

Clary had gotten through a few more drinks by herself, sitting near the corner of the room, when Jace and Isabelle walked in. They caught Clary’s eyes, and she raised her glass in a greeting. Isabelle leaned closer towards Jace to whisper something in his ear, and the two of them parted with Isabelle walking towards Clary and Jace going up to the bar counter.

She sat down in a chair next to Clary and crossed her feet, tilting her head toward Clary. “Fancy running into you here,” she purred, smirking. Clary thought she must’ve already had a few drinks in her, as well.

“Isn’t it?” Clary asked, smiling back. “What have you been doing today?”

Isabelle waved her hand dismissively. “Nothing very interesting,” she replied. “Took a little sleep after lunch and then visited the library – have you been there? It’s incredible.”

“Haven’t had the time, yet,” Clary admitted. “But I’ve been meaning to. My friend, Raphael, said it was the only aspect of the Titanic that would make him consider coming aboard.”

“He’s a reader?” Isabelle asked. “What I wouldn’t do to have friends that appreciate culture.”

Clary shrugged. “He’s a reader when it suits him,” she said. “When it doesn’t, he’s a politician, or an artist, or a worker. It drivers Simon – another friend – up the wall.”

“Some people are versatile like that,” Isabelle sighed. “I wish I had the courage to just… go out and try new things, when it suits my fancy. Imagine the things you could do, if only you had the chances and the opportunity?”

“The privilege of the rich and the other sex,” Clary said. “But who am I to complain about riches, being here on this ship?”

“Very true,” Isabelle agreed. “We’re the lucky ones.” She seemed to consider her words, then nodded. “Yes, the lucky ones.”

“Indeed,” Clary echoed. “But… suppose you had the chance and the opportunity. What would you wish to do?”

Isabelle shrugged one shoulder. “What wouldn’t I? Most of all, I think I’d like to help people.”

Clary felt ashamed that her answer would’ve been to have enough money to be able to start her own art gallery and fill it with the works she loved the best. She would’ve liked to live with Simon in a house somewhere in Brooklyn, and to give her mother the medication she needed. She was selfish, she knew.

“Our Isabelle here would love to be a doctor,” Jace voice broke Clary out of her thoughts. He slipped into a chair opposite to her, and handed Isabelle a drink. “One Gin Fix, as you asked.”

“Thank you, brother dear.” Isabelle sipped her drink, and smiled. “Just as good as I remembered.”

“A doctor?” Clary asked, latching on to Jace’s words.

Isabelle pulled a face. “I told him this once, whilst… slightly intoxicated. He refuses to let go.”

Jace shrugged. “It seemed to me you were entirely serious.”

“I was only—“

“I think it’s admirable,” Clary cut in. She flushed a little as both Lightwood siblings turned to look at her. “To want to save lives, that is.”

“See, I told you that,” Jace muttered, shaking his head.

But Isabelle didn’t even glance at him. “You think so?” She asked Clary.

“I do.”

Isabelle smiled, and Clary’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m glad,” she said earnestly. “I value your opinion.”

“Yes,” Clary managed, taking a desperate sip of her drink. “Me, too.”

 

***

 

Clary was staring at the paintings in her room with disdain. The more she looked at them, the more she grew to hate them – it was a vicious cycle. There was one directly across her bed, a bright assortment of fruit. Fauvism, she guessed. The style looked quite pleasant, if done well and by someone who knew what they were doing; this one wasn’t. It was horrendous. The red of the apples pierced her eyes with its outrageousness, and the colours contrasted each other in all the wrong ways. She wasn’t arrogant enough to think she could do better, but she liked to think she could’ve chosen better pieces for the decoration of her room.

Clary stood up and walked over to the painting, tapping at the canvas with her finger. She traced the outline of the apple, lips pursed. She wouldn’t do anything to harm it – she didn’t believe in the destruction of art, no matter how bad or offensive it would be. All art was made by someone for someone, and all art had a purpose, no matter how miniscule or ridiculous. But she _was_ very tempted to tear the offensive canvas away.

On the right to the painting, there was a black and white picture of the Titanic. Clary moved on to stand in front of it, dragging her feet. It was hard to believe she was truly aboard it, living and breathing in the history. Because this journey was that – historic. That was what the magazines had proclaimed. “The largest cruiser to cross the Atlantic”, a miracle, the pinnacle of modern life and luxury.

That had certainly been reflected on the prices, as well. If Clary’s father hadn’t left them with his savings when he’d vanished, she would’ve had no chance to come aboard – and even now, she could hardly afford anything once she arrived in America. Clary had first insisted that her mother should have the money, and use it to buy her medication, intensive care, anything that might help. But Jocelyn had refused. “It’s your life, Clare,” she’d rasped, holding her hands in the dark of her bedroom. “You need to make the best of it. Promise me you’ll try. Promise me that you’ll live to the fullest.”

So, Clary tried to. And now here she was.

She gave the fruit painting one last, fleeting look of annoyance.

 

The Titanic had a swimming pool. Simon had laughed when she’d told him. “Why does a _ship_ need a _swimming pool_?” He’d cackled, amused. “That’s a bit rich, isn’t it?”

Clary couldn’t argue with him, really. She thought it was a bit ludicrous – they were surrounded by water, for God’s sake, was it necessary to have more of it inside the ship? But nonetheless she’d packed her swimsuit with her, and now, she was tipping her toes in the warm water.

She didn’t know how they kept it heated so well, but the temperature was perfect as Clary slipped into the pool. It reached her arm pits, just barely. She was glad she’d put her hair up – it normally took forever to dry properly.

It was then that Clary realised that Isabelle was lounging on the other side of the pool, her eyes closed. She was leaning her head backwards, her hair floating in the water around her like a bunch of small snakes. She looked gorgeous, as she always seemed to do, in her black swimsuit decorated with white gems.

Clary hesitantly made her way towards Isabelle across the otherwise empty pool. She didn’t know if Isabelle was asleep or not, and didn’t want to wake her too early.

Once she got close, Clary stopped. She cupped water in her hands, and flicked some at Isabelle.

“What—“ Isabelle’s eyes snapped open, her gaze wild. Then she noticed Clary and burst into laughter. “Oh, you _didn’t_.”

Clary joined her laughter and walked to stand beside her. “Oh, I did,” she giggled. “Were you asleep?”

Isabelle shook her head, still smiling. “In hibernation, more like. I didn’t sleep too good last night, and Jace kept me awake by explaining something about the new book he’s reading. I forget the title, but it was about the physics of aeroplanes, or something equally as tedious.”

“Should’ve made you fall asleep, then,” Clary pointed out.

“True enough,” Isabelle conceded. “By the time I was finally about to fall asleep, Alec came barging in, furious about—“ She cut herself off, hesitating. “I shouldn’t say. But regardless, his pacing and grumbling then ensured I get as little sleep as possible.”

“Well, aren’t I lucky to have a room of my own,” Clary said. “There’s no need to worry about noisy roommates when you don’t have any.”

Isabelle fixed her a look, half amusement, half curiosity. “You don’t have anyone you would’ve liked to take with you? What about the friend, what was it—Raphael? Or Simon?”

“You remembered.” Clary’s chest felt warm. “Simon’s my best friend. Or was – I’m not sure. I don’t know how it’ll continue with me in New York and him in London.”

“Is, was,” Isabelle waved her hand. “If it’s real, it’ll last. Trust me. Real friendship is something that doesn’t mind the distance.” She glanced at Clary. “So, why is he not here with you?”

Clary shrugged a little helplessly. “Money,” she said. “Simple as that. Couldn’t afford a ticket.”

“I see.” Isabelle looked like she didn’t. Clary wondered just how rich their family was. “It was good luck then that Jace bumped into you. Now you’ve got completely new friends to keep you company.”

Clary wasn’t sure she liked her dismissive attitude. Simon meant a lot to her – more than that. She missed him, more than she cared to admit.

“Right,” she drawled. “Lucky me.”

Isabelle seemed to pick up on her tone, and frowned. “What is it? Did I say something wrong?”

“No, I just—it’s nothing, truly. Don’t worry.” Clary didn’t want to complicate things, and she didn’t even know herself what it was that Isabelle had said that irked her. She couldn’t articulate her feelings, so it was better to not mention them at all. “It is lucky I met you all. Even though I haven’t seen much of Alec.”

Isabelle still looked suspicious, but let it go. “Alec’s been… busy,” she said vaguely. “He’s spent a lot of his time arguing over things he should learn to either resolve or let go. But then, he’s been doing that for years now.” She paused. “I really wouldn’t it take it badly if you don’t get to know him much. He tends to be more reclusive than not.”

“Still. It would be nice to exchange words. He is your brother, after all,” Clary insisted.

Isabelle looked pleased. “I’ll tell him,” she promised. “I’m sure you’ll meet sooner or later.” Without a warning, she splashed water in Clary’s face. “Ha! I got you.”

Clary blinked the water from her eyes, laughing. “You got me,” she said. “You really did.”

Isabelle grinned, crossing her arms. “Your hair is entirely too dry,” she decided, before reaching out to yank Clary’s hair down.

Clary yelped, and tried to step back – too late.

Isabelle laughed, but not in a demeaning way. Her eyes crinkled as she looked at Clary. “You look adorable,” she said. Her voice had gone quiet.

“I—“ Clary couldn’t help the blush on her cheeks. “I do not— _adorable_? Do you mean that?”

“Yes,” Isabelle confirmed. “Adorable.”

Clary’s heart ached in a strange way; she decided to ignore it, for the time being.

 

The evening was fast approaching. Clary changed out of her green dress and into her most expensive, crimson gown. There was going to be a jazz show tonight on the lower decks, and Clary was adamant on going. She missed listening to Simon play; the show would either make her feel better or more home-sick than she already was.

Clary hoped it’d be the former.

She was on her way to the dining hall when she heard the sound of an argument behind one of the rooms. The voices were loud and carried out over to the hallway. The door was slightly open; Clary stopped to listen, curious against the best of her intentions.

She recognised one of the voices as the man from that morning – Magnus. The one who was friends with Alec.

“This is ridiculous,” he said, sounding strained. “Why can’t we?”

“You know why,” the other voice said. He sounded exhausted, like this was an argument they’d had many times before. “Magnus…”

“Don’t,” Magnus said icily. “I don’t want to play at these games.”

The other voice went silent for a few seconds. “It’s not a game,” he finally said quietly. “You know it’s not.”

“Do I?” Magnus asked, feigning laughter. It sounded hollow. “It’s been so long, I’ve quite forgotten.”

“I don’t—I _can’t_ …” The sentence faded away. “I’ll think about it, alright? I have to… I can’t just—“

“Yes, you could,” Magnus said. He sounded sad. “If you wanted to, Alexander, you could.”

The conversation seemed to die out. Clary walked past the door as silently as she could, not wanting to disturb them or make her presence known. She wondered if Alexander stood for Alec, and felt bad for him.

Clary sat alone at dinner again. She couldn’t find Isabelle anywhere, but Jace caught her eyes and waved at her. She waved back with a smile. As she watched, Alec joined Jace at his table. He looked tired, even from a distance. Clary thought it must’ve been him who’d been having the argument, and felt even worse for listening it. It was none of her business what went on aboard the ship.

She ate quickly and left without glancing over at their table again.

 

 The jazz show was held in a homely room below the main deck. The main stage was hidden beneath red curtains, intriguing and elegant. Clary bought a drink and sat down near to it, in one of the many plush armchairs. They were nearly as soft as the bed in her room – she sank into it, feeling comfortable.

The room slowly filled up with people. Clary was lost in thought until someone sat down next to her, and coughed loudly to get her attention.

It was Alec. He was watching her intensively, brows drawn together into a deep frown. “You’re Clary? Isabelle’s new friend?” He asked, and then continued without waiting for a response. “It’s not very polite to listen in on private conversations.”

Clary’s heart sank, and she swallowed nervously. The chair didn’t feel as comfortable anymore. “I’m—I didn’t mean to,” she said, but the excuse sounded weak even to her own ears. “It just…”

“It just happened?” He filled in bitterly. “In my experience, things don’t tend to _just_ _happen_. I’d keep my noise out of other people’s relationships, if I were you. I won’t make this into an issue, because of Isabelle, but not everyone is as lenient.”

Clary managed a nod. “I truly am sorry,” she said quietly. “It wasn’t any of my business.”

“No,” Alec agreed. “It wasn’t.”

Before she could say more, the band behind the curtain began playing. The crowd fell silent. Alec leaned further away from her and turned to look at the stage. Clary understood the message – the conversation was over. She took Alec for someone who wasn’t too fond of loose ends, and vowed to not bring the incident up again if she talked to him.

The stage curtains were drawn.

Clary felt as though she’d been punched in the stomach. Her heart skipped a beat, because—

Isabelle.

She was in the centre of the stage, wearing the same black dress from the previous night, sans the gloves. Her eyes were lined with black in delicate patterns. Her hair framed her face, hanging loose in big, soft curls. Her lips, painted deep red, were pulled into a grin.

She caught Clary’s eyes, and winked at her.

Clary felt breathless. Isabelle looked stunning with the stage lights shining down on her, smoke curling in the background. She looked like she belonged there, like it was her second home.

Then she began to sing. Her voice filled the entire room, each corner and nook. It was raspy, almost like she’d just smoked a pack of cigarettes before walking on stage. It was so different to the soft way she’d spoken to Clary with that she felt herself taken aback by it, pleasantly so.

Clary’s drink was forgotten in her hand as she watched Isabelle sway gently on stage from one song to another. Not once did her voice crack or give way. She’d captivated her audience – Clary glanced around her once to find the entire room staring at Isabelle as if almost enchanted.

Next to her, Alec was smiling to himself. Clary thought she noted certain pride in his eyes as he listened to Isabelle sing.

In a few hours, she was finished. Isabelle took a final bow and left the stage quietly as the room applauded after her. Clary stood still for a while, not sure if she wanted to move. The room emptied around her.

Eventually, she downed the rest of her drink and headed outside to the decks.

The stars had come out. Clary wrapped a scarf around her shoulders to shield her from the cold wind. She still felt her arms prickle, and she couldn’t decide if it came from the weather or the memory of Isabelle’s voice echoing in her mind.

She silently thanked herself for going to the show. If she’d missed it, would she ever have known that Isabelle sang? Would she have told her?

Clary had heard a lot of women sing in the shows Simon had made her go see, but they all paled next to Isabelle. She’d been almost from a different planet entirely, glowing in the white lights, all black and red and stark shadows.

Clary shook her head, staring into the water. She felt slightly dizzy, despite the cool night air.

She stood there for a while, until a familiar voice spoke from behind her.

“Clary,” Isabelle said. She settled next to her, leaning her arms against the railing. She’d put her gloves back on. “Did you enjoy the show?”

Clary looked at her, trying to contain her smile. “You didn’t tell me you were here to sing,” she said, but there was no accusation in her tone.

Isabelle looked sheepish. “I wanted it to be a surprise,” she said. “I thought if you didn’t come to the show, then I could tell you. But if you’d known beforehand, I would’ve missed the look on your face.” She grinned, knocking her shoulder against Clary’s. “You looked positively shaken.”

“For a reason,” Clary said defensively. “You looked—you looked good.” She paused. “You _sounded_ good. More than that.”

She thought she saw Isabelle blush. “Well, thank you. Alec keeps telling me that I have talent, but I can’t hear it myself. I think I’m fairly average.”

“There’s nothing average about you,” Clary found herself saying. She coughed, turning her eyes away from Isabelle.

Isabelle said nothing, which Clary was grateful for.

“I think I’d like to travel to the stars one day,” Isabelle said after a while. Clary glanced at her, and found her staring at the starry sky above.

“Why?”

Isabelle shrugged. It looked almost delicate, despite her being everything but. “I’d like to see the reality behind the beauty. Gorgeous from the distance, but cold to the touch once you reach them.”

Clary swallowed nervously. “Really?” She asked. “I rather think of stars as burning. It’s how they generate all that light.”

The corner of Isabelle’s mouth twitched. “I suppose,” she amended. “But I’d still like to see them. It would ruin the magic, but it would still be an incredible experience. Don’t you agree?”

Clary didn’t think they were talking about the stars anymore. “Seeing the reality behind beauty?” She asked. Her voice sounded distant. “I think it would make it more real. Rawer.”

Isabelle hummed. She turned to look at her, their eyes meeting in the dark. “And that’s good?” She prodded. “Being real?”

Clary fidgeted with her hands. “Yes,” she said. “That’s good.”

Isabelle took a deep breath, still looking at Clary. “I think—“

There was commotion behind them, and Isabelle fell silent. They both turned to look as Alec rounded the corner, looking furious. But when he noticed Isabelle, his expression mellowed.

“There you are,” he said as he got closer. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Have you, now?” Isabelle asked. She raised a single brow. “I thought you’d be occupied elsewhere.”

Alec’s eyes turned almost sad. “Please,” he said. “Not now.”

Isabelle must’ve noticed something in his tone, because she took a step closer. “Is everything okay?” She asked, concerned.

He shook his head. “Not now,” he repeated. “I’ll tell you everything later.”

“Alright,” Isabelle amended. “Later.” The word carried a promise in it.

Alec shot Clary a wary look, and wrapped an arm around Isabelle’s shoulders. “We’ll go now,” he said in a tone that left little room for an argument.

Isabelle gave Clary an apologetic smile. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” she promised quietly. “Night.”

“Night,” Clary echoed faintly.

Alec and Isabelle walked further down the deck. Right before they rounded the corner, Isabelle turned to give Clary one last smile behind her shoulder.

Clary waved her hand once, and then let it fall as Isabelle disappeared from sight. She didn’t quite understand the way her heart was strumming in her chest, of the fluttering in her stomach.

 

Not feeling tired, Clary decided to finally go visit the library. It had been advertised as being open night to day, and Clary thought she might feel better if she had a good book to occupy her mind.

She found the room quickly. It was just as fancy as the rest of the ship, but somehow felt more real. Perhaps it was the smell of paper that did it. Clary had always enjoyed it – it was the same scent that her sketching papers smelled of. It made her feel calmer.

She walked among the shelves, tracing the spines of the books with her fingers. Some nice fiction, she’d decided. Or then a book about art – either way would do. She skipped the romance shelf entirely; something about it made her feel queasy.

In the end, she decided on _Howards End_ by E.M. Forster. The back cover made it sound interesting. She turned around to go and loan it, when she found her path blocked by a stranger.

It was the same man, she noticed, who she recalled having smiled at her during the first dinner. He was wearing the same pinstripe suit, black and grey – it fitted him like a glove, and Clary thought it must’ve been expensive. He was smiling at her now as well.

Clary took a step back. “Good evening,” she said, as politely as she could. The man made her nervous, but she didn’t want to come across as rude. “Could you make way, please?”

The man was wide enough to block the entire passage way. There was no one in the library but them. Clary swallowed nervously, clutching the book in her hand.

“I’d be happy to,” the man said. “If you’ll agree to have dinner with me, tomorrow night.”

Clary took another step back – the man stepped forward. He reached out for her shoulder, then aborted the gesture halfway through. Clary began to clamber for an excuse of any kind. “I’m rather afraid I’ve promised my friend that I’ll dine with her and her brothers,” she lied, desperate to get out the situation. “She’ll be very upset if I cancel out plans. You know how us women get.”

The man smiled dryly. “Yes,” he said in a wry tone, “I most certainly do.”

Clary felt cold sweat on her forehead. Panic swelled in her stomach. She wanted to get out and into her room, behind its locked door. “Yes,” she echoed. “So, you see, I’m afraid I can’t have dinner with you. Now, if you could please let me move past—“

The man tilted her head, but it didn’t look good as it had when Isabelle had done it; instead, it looked slightly grotesque. He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind Clary’s ear, brushing the locks with his fingers. The air around them felt heavy. Clary’s eyes flickered from book to book as she did her best to look at anything but the man.

Finally, he let out a hum, and stepped backwards until Clary could walk past him.

She went to loan the book with shaking hands, feeling the man’s eyes in the back of her head the entire time. As she left the library, he called out after her.

“You will dine with me,” he said in an odd tone.

It took every ounce of restraint Clary had to not run back to her room.

 

***

 

Clary didn’t sleep that night. She kept twisting and turning in her bed, tangled in her sheets that felt like they were sticking to her skin in an uncomfortable way. The blanket felt too hot, the mattress too soft. Each time she closed her eyes she heard the man’s voice float around her head, could feel his hands touching her, and her eyes flew open.

The darkness felt too much, and eventually Clary got up to turn the lights on. She curled up on the couch of her room, her knees drawn up, and began drawing.

She started with Simon. She always did.

Simon eating dinner with her, the table lit by candles. Simon playing the cello, Raphael smiling stoically in the background. Simon lying face first in bed, head pressed into a pillow; she could almost hear him whining about wanting to sleep for a little longer. Her and Simon, hugging by the docks before she left – her last memory, and the one that hurt the most.

Clary felt tears sting in the corners of her eyes and let them fall, not even trying to blink them away. She missed Simon. She missed the familiarity of her home, of England. She was here on a ship, surrounded by people she didn’t know and _couldn’t_ know, people who could do whatever they wanted to her—

Her skin crawled. Her lines turned aggressive and blunt. She sketched the man, and then sketched over him, erasing him from her pages. The tip of her pen broke, and she picked a new one, desperate to work away the tension in her body in any way she could.

She drew Dot, her mom’s assistant and official caretaker. She drew her mom watering plants in their apartment; the plants were dead now, her mom couldn’t even get up from bed without help, the flowers had to be dead. She drew herself playing cards with her mom. Clary always let her win, because Jocelyn was equally terrible at cards as she was at losing. She drew their living room, and the kitchen, and her own room, the familiar walls and cracks and paintings.

She drew her favourite sights from around London, all the bridges and houses and towers she could think of. She let herself sink into the past and be embraced by the safety of it.

This entire journey had been a mistake. What would she even do once she got to New York? _Paint_? There were thousands upon thousands of painters in New York, how would she be any different from them? All she could do was mix colours well and imitate life, imitate other people.

Clary was shaking as she finally sketched Isabelle’s profile. The strokes of her pen turned gentler, but the lines were blurry and odd, a weak imitation of her usual drawings. The Isabelle on her paper was looking away from her, smiling mysteriously into the distance. She looked enticing, in the same way as the real Isabelle did—

Frustrated with herself, Clary threw her pen across the room with a scream.

 

She saw the sun rise when morning finally arrived, hours later. Clary watched it with bleak eyes through the tiny windows of her room. She hadn’t felt this trapped in a long time; she couldn’t escape her room, much less the ship. Where could she go, where the man couldn’t follow and do something worse than trap her like he had last night?

Clary didn’t go eat breakfast; she wasn’t sure she could stomach it. She thought the man must’ve gone there, and left her room while she had the chance to do without being afraid of running into him in the hallways. She ventured to the upper deck, as far away from both the dining hall and the library as she could, and towards open air. She needed to _breathe_.

Clary found herself back where she’d been drawing the other day, and sat in a corner where she thought no one would be able to see her, but where she saw anyone who would approach. It was secluded enough that she felt content there. Clary’s eyes felt dry, and her body aching, but she didn’t want to move – she couldn’t.

What was she going to do for the rest of the voyage? She couldn’t avoid eating forever, and the man was bound to find her sooner or later. What would he do, then? What could she do to stop him? Her mind kept whispering to her that she was overreacting, that this wasn’t as big on an issue as she was making it out to be, while her heart screamed at for her to leave, get out, swim if she had to, _anything_.

It wasn’t until midday when someone finally found her.

Clary was staring into the distance when Isabelle appeared from her right, a worried look in her eyes. When she noticed Clary, she beelined towards her – and stopped only when she saw Clary’s expression. She stood a few metres away, looking helpless.

Clary averted her eyes and nodded. Isabelle stepped closer and sat next to her.

“You didn’t come to breakfast,” she started after a small silence. Clary saw Isabelle look at her. “I was worried.”

Clary didn’t know how to even begin to explain. She looked up at the sky, leaning her head against the wall. “I went to the library last night,” she started, not looking at Isabelle. “After you and Alec left. I thought I’d get some light reading.” She took a shuddering breath, hating herself for not holding it together. “This—this man came up. I noticed him the first day – or, he noticed me, smiled at me in the dining hall. He blocked my path so that I couldn’t get out. Demanded I have dinner with him. Touched—touched my hair.” She paused. “He wouldn’t let me go,” she finished quietly.

There was a long silence, during which Clary was tempted to glance in Isabelle’s direction. After she failed to say anything, Clary closed her eyes and shook her head. “It’s silly,” she said. “I shouldn’t be upset over something like this—“

“No,” Isabelle said. Clary’s eyes flew open at her tone, and she lowered her head to look.

Isabelle was shaking with silent anger, her hands curled into fists. She was watching a point somewhere in the distance. Her jaw trembled. “No,” she repeated, turning to look at Clary. “You have every right to be upset, and to feel emotions. You have every right to do that.” She bit her lip, and averted her eyes. She seemed to deflate, her shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Clary asked, confused. “Why would you be sorry?”

“You don’t need my anger right now,” Isabelle explained. “What did—what did he look like? Can you describe him?”

Clary shrugged. She couldn’t get the image of the man out of her head, no matter how much she wanted to. “Brown hair. Wore a pinstripe suit. Heavy built, I suppose.”

“I’ll have Jace and Alec find him,” Isabelle said. “And they’ll take care of it.” Hesitantly, she took Clary’s hands in hers, and gave them a gentle squeeze. “I promise, alright? They’ll take care of it.”

And for some reason, Clary believed her. She shuffled to lean against Isabelle, resting her head on her shoulder. She felt so incredibly tired, weariness dragging her body down. Her lids felt as though they were made of lead, and her body like she’d been swimming against the current for hours.

“Thank you,” she said. “Truly, I—thank you.”

Isabelle huffed. “Trust me, it’s not a problem at all.” There was a considerate pause. “My father was unfaithful to my mother, for quite some time, before he had the decency to leave. He didn’t even try to salvage the situation. We were furious, of course, but he left us a nice sum of money as some sort of sick payback. And the man I used to go out with, he… he liked to consider me his personal canvas to paint bruises on.” She glanced at Clary. “I know what men can be like at their worst.”

Clary felt sick at the mere thought of someone hurting Isabelle. She pressed herself closer against her; they were still holding hands. “Sorry doesn’t help,” she said, “but I’ll say it regardless. I’m sorry.”

She could see Isabelle smile sadly from the corner of her eye. “Thank you,” she said. “But it’s in the past now, where it belongs. This, too, will be in the past one day. It doesn’t seem like it, but it will. Trust me.”

They sat together in silence for a while, until Clary yawned.

“I think I’ll go sleep for a while,” she mumbled. “I stayed up all night.”

Isabelle didn’t hesitate for a second before saying, “I’ll come with you.”

They stood up, and Isabelle linked her elbow with Clary’s. She gave her an encouraging smile. “Ready?”

 

Isabelle drew all the curtains shut in Clary’s room, enveloping it in a welcoming dark. Clary climbed under her blankets, feeling how heavy her lids were becoming. She sank into the mattress, feeling as though she could dissolve into it.

“Stay?” She asked, not sure if Isabelle could hear her.

“I promise,” Isabelle’s response carried over. There was a creak as she sat on the couch. “You can sleep now.”

Clary fell asleep, comforted by Isabelle’s unwavering presence as she watched over her in the dark of the room.

 

Her dreams were restless. She was stood in a dark room as strange hands kept touching her all over, hungry and demanding. Words were whispered in odd languages she couldn’t recognise, ominous and oddly loud, echoing around the space over and over and over again, never ending.

Clary shook her head, and moved her body, and the dream shattered—

And then she was on the deck of the Titanic, as Isabelle held her, hands around her waist. “Trust me,” she whispered into her ear, her breath hot. They swayed together in the strong wind which almost knocked them over board, but Isabelle held on to her tight, her feet rooted to the ground.

“Trust me,” she repeated.

“I do,” Clary replied, and it felt natural – the most natural thing in the world. “I do trust you—“

The dream changed again, shuffled around. Alec was glaring at her, the shadow of Magnus standing tall behind him. His arms were crossed in barely constrained anger. “Stay out of my business,” he said, and his voice boomed around them. “You nosy—“

The man was standing in front of Clary, smiling. “Dine with me?” He asked, stepping closer. Clary couldn’t move a muscle. “Sleep with me?” He asked, taking another step. His hands found her hair, combing it. “Come on,” he purred, “it’s just for one night, your husband won’t mind—“

Jace appeared, standing between them. “I’ll take care of it,” he promised, and the two fought while Clary fled the scene, tripping on her own feet as she ran, and ran, and ran—

 

Clary woke up to a voice singing an old lullaby she thought the recognised from her childhood. She stirred slowly and sat up in her bed, her body still aching all over. She squinted her eyes in the dark room to see.

Isabelle had kept her promise. She was laying on the couch, eyes closed, singing to herself. She looked peaceful – so much so that Clary almost felt bad for having to disturb her. But she couldn’t stand the silence.

“Isabelle?” She asked quietly.

Isabelle stopped her singing abruptly, and opened her eyes. She smiled at Clary without moving from her place, her fingers crossed atop her stomach. “Evening,” she greeted.

Clary turned to look at the clock. It was a little past six. She stood up from bed and stretched her arms above her head, feeling her back crack quietly. She felt refreshed, and calmer. Isabelle had promised that Alec and Jace would take care of the man; he couldn’t bother her anymore. She could be in peace.

Or that was what she hoped.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Clary said, eyeing Isabelle. “For all of this. You didn’t have to stay here with me.”

Isabelle looked at her, her expression serious. “You asked me to,” was all she said. She reached out to the floor and picked a book up. “Besides, I had this to read. _Creative Evolution_?”

Clary laughed a little, crossing her arms. “It has interesting theories about the perception of art,” she said in her defence. “Not many scientists want to recognise the merits of creative expression.”

Isabelle smiled. “Well, that’s silly. Art is science, in its own way.” She didn’t elaborate further. Instead, she stood up and moved to open the curtains. “Would you like to have dinner with me, Alec and Jace?” She asked, her back turned to Clary.

 _You will dine with me_. Clary shook her head. Isabelle wasn’t demanding; she was asking. “I’d love to,” she said.

Isabelle turned back to her, grinning. “Delightful,” she said. “Do you want to change clothes?”

Clary glanced down at the dress she had been wearing since last night. It felt dirty, now. “I think so,” she replied, looking back at Isabelle. “Would you mind?”

As Isabelle looked on at the sea through the window, Clary changed into a blue dress with the most covering neckline. She cleared her throat to let Isabelle know she was finished.

“That colour looks good on you,” Isabelle commented. Her eyes didn’t linger; Clary appreciated it.

 

When Isabelle and Clary arrived in the dining hall, it was already full. They navigated through the hall and towards the back, where Jace and Alec were sitting. Clary noticed with a surprise that they were joined by Magnus and the woman he’d been having breakfast with the other day, Catarina.

Clary sat between Alec and Isabelle. She could feel Alec give Isabelle a questioning look, and Jace lifted a single brow, but neither said anything. Clary felt grateful; she wanted to enjoy this dinner, and not dwell on what had happened. The memory of the man’s smile creeped around her head; Clary took a sip of her champagne to drown it.

“Well, isn’t this a lovely bunch,” Magnus said, smiling. He looked happier than before, almost like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Clary wondered if he’d made up with Alec, whatever it was that they had been arguing over. “I don’t believe I’ve met you before,” he continued, looking warmly at Clary.

“She’s a friend,” Isabelle said before Clary could open her mouth. “Clary Fray. She’s an artist, you know. I managed to glimpse some of her works today. Incredible.”

Clary felt embarrassed as she remembered the sketches of Simon she’d left on her table; Isabelle must’ve meant those. She hoped Isabelle didn’t think Simon was his fiancé, or husband.

“Oh, no,” she said. She waved her hand as if to brush Isabelle’s comment aside. “I do paintings but I’m not…”

“Nonsense,” Magnus interjected. “Anyone who does art is an artist by default, whether they make profit from it or not.” He looked wistful for a second. “I wanted to be an artist when I was younger.”

Alec lifted his head in surprise. “You did?” He asked. Then he seemed to realise he’d spoken aloud, and averted his eyes back to his plate. “You never told me that.”

Magnus grinned. “A gentleman ought to have his secrets,” he pronounced. “And I’m nothing if not a gentleman.”

“False,” Catarina said. She was eating salad, and was trying to fish a piece of lettuce with her fork with little success. It kept slipping away, and her mouth pulled into a frown. “You’ve never so much as _seen_ a gentleman.”

“I’m right here,” Jace argued.

They all laughed; Jace looked proud of himself.

Clary felt herself loosen up more as the dinner went on, almost like last night’s events were slipping away quietly. Everyone at the table had their own witty sense of humour to contribute to the ever-flowing conversation, and Isabelle kept her hand near Clary’s knee in a comforting touch. She kept smiling at Clary from time to time.

Clary learned that Catarina wanted to be a nurse, and that she was going to New York to begin her studies there. It was cheaper, she said, than to get an education in England. She’d met a man in London who had already immigrated to America before her; they were going to be married once she arrived. She smiled a lot when she talked about him, which Clary thought was sweet. She hadn’t ever so much as seen them together, but she could tell they would adorable together.

Catarina was traveling with Magnus because they’d been friends for a long time. He’d been looking for a change, and the opportunity to go to New York had seemed perfect. While he was explaining his reasons for taking the journey, he kept glancing over in Alec’s direction, looking hesitant. Clary didn’t say anything, not wanting to draw attention to it, but she wondered about it to herself.

She thought they must’ve been seeing each other – the conversation she’d overheard seemed to make infinitely more sense in the light of that.

Clary didn’t take an issue with it. She knew most people frowned down upon it in London at least, but seeing the way Alec looked at Magnus when he thought no one saw, soft and adoring, she couldn’t understand what sinful or wrong there supposedly was about it. It was love, nothing less. Everyone deserved love.

She wondered if she would ever find anyone like that, and then felt an odd stab in her heart. It didn’t feel uncomfortable, per se, more like a reminded of something she’d forgotten. Clary let it go without thinking about it for too much longer.

They finished dinner and moved on to dessert. Clary only noticed after she’d eaten just how famished she’d been.

“So, how did you two meet?” Magnus asked, waving his fork between Isabelle and Clary.

Clary glanced at Isabelle. “I, um,” she began, licking her lips. “Jace bumped into me, actually, on the first day here. Isabelle came to apologise to me on his behalf.”

Jace looked bashful, poking his slice of raspberry cheese cake with a small fork. “Well, aren’t we all glad that I was having a bad day, and that Isabelle has more manners than me and Alec combined?” He asked, glancing around the table. “Otherwise, some of us might’ve never met.”

“It’s not very difficult to have more manners than you two savages,” Isabelle mumbled, causing Clary to choke on her piece of cake. She coughed, and Isabelle tapped her lightly on the back. “There, there.”

“I, for one, think it’s delightful we all met,” Catarina announced. She raised her glass. “A toast, to new friends.”

“To new friends,” they all echoed, clinging their glasses together.

Isabelle smiled at Clary. “I’m glad we met,” she whispered as the rest of the table continued talking.

Clary’s throat felt dry. Her heart was beating a nervous rhythm again, like it was trying to escape her chest. The smile that Isabelle gave her felt special, like it was reserved for her eyes only. “Me too,” Clary managed. “I am… I’m very glad, indeed.”

 

They decided to take a walk on the promenade after dinner. Before Isabelle joined her, Clary saw her talking to Alec and Jace in a hushed voice, their heads drawn near other. Jace shot Clary a look after something Isabelle said, simultaneously incredulous and angry – but not at her. She felt warm, knowing that she’d made friends who cared for her like this. She knew Simon would’ve done the same for her – what he would or wouldn’t do seemed like a good scale to compare to.

Later, she and Isabelle stood on the deck, watching the stars again. Isabelle took her hands in her, their fingers entwined. Clary could feel her heart beat faster, and hoped that Isabelle couldn’t feel the way her hands were sweating.

“It’s taken care of,” Isabelle said softly. “Alec and Jace are on it. He won’t bother you again, ever. They’ll make sure of it.”

Clary eyed her. “Thank you,” she said, even though it seemed lacking. There was so much more she should’ve said, that she _wanted_ to say but couldn’t find the words for. She settled for saying nothing, and hoped that Isabelle understood her regardless.

Clary glanced up at the sky, and wondered how it was that Isabelle seemed to be more beautiful than all the stars in there combined.

 

***

 

The sun was shining brightly. Clary let herself bask in the light of it, her back against the railing of the ship. Her eyes were closed, and a small smile played on her lips. The light breeze ruffled her clothes, but she didn’t mind. She didn’t mind anything, right now.

It was a new day. A new day, and a new start. For the entire morning, Clary hadn’t seen so much as a shadow of the man who’d been bothering her. She attributed this to something that Alec and Jace had done, and felt grateful once more.

She’d never really had any other friends than Simon to stand up for her. The change was certainly a positive one in her mind. And all of it was thanks to Isabelle, for having made the effort to come and talk to her those days ago. It almost felt like years, now.

Clary wondered what Isabelle was doing. Did she practice her singing, beautiful and captivating all at once? Did she like to read – Clary knew she did. She wondered what sort of books she liked. Was she spending time with her brothers, or were they—

“Fray,” Alec’s voice floated beside her suddenly. He sounded hesitant.

Clary cracked one eye open and squinted in his direction. Alec was standing with his hands behind his back, shifting balance between his feet like he couldn’t quite decide how to be. He was looking at Clary, but his gaze didn’t hold the same anger or disdain as it previously had.

“Alec,” Clary greeted, feeling nervous. “What brings you here?”

Alec took a deep breath, and turned his head to look at the sea. He was frowning, but it seemed to be a permanent expression rather than caused by her.

“You listening in on me and Magnus is still wrong,” he started. “And I still think you should’ve simply walked past the door. But I also understand that you meant no malice. What we discussed, it…” He sighed, glancing down at the deck. “I don’t know how much you heard, but I would very much appreciate it if you told no one outside of my siblings and Catarina. What I have with Magnus, it’s… it’s special. To me. I’m sure you’ve realised as much. I’d rather it not go away.” He shot Clary a pointed look. “Do we have an understanding on that?”

Clary found his dedication inspiring. She wished she had someone she would do anything for, someone whom she could love with her whole heart like it seemed Alec loved Magnus. They were making it work, despite all the odds going against them. Clary admired that.

“I won’t say a word,” she promised. “It’s none of my business what you do in your private life.”

Alec nodded sternly. “Good,” he said. “That’s settled, then.”

They stood in silence for a while, Alec watching the sea and Clary watching him.

“I wanted to say,” Clary started, fidgeting with her hands. “Thank you. I assume Isabelle told you about my… about what happened.”

Alec gave her an almost warm look. “She did,” he confirmed. “You don’t have to worry. Me and Jace had words with him. It won’t be a problem no longer, I can guarantee that.”

Clary wasn’t sure she wanted to know what constituted as _having words_ in his books, and decided not to ask. The less details she knew, the better. All she had to know was that he wouldn’t bother her, and that she didn’t have to be afraid to walk alone on the ship. Of course, in reality, the knowledge did little to ease her discomfort, but it was still comforting to know that rationally, she had nothing to worry about.

“I appreciate it,” Clary said genuinely. “You didn’t have to.”

Alec shrugged a little. “Isabelle asked me to,” he said, as it that was explanation enough. Clary supposed it was. “And besides, it was the right thing to do.”

“Your sister is a life saver.” Clary sighed, closing her eyes. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without her.”

Alec said nothing for a while. Then he cleared his throat. “Speaking of Isabelle. I haven’t done this in a while, and the last time it didn’t end up pretty, but… it would be much appreciated that you handle her with care. She doesn’t look like it, but she’s been hurt before and it took her a long time to recover. I don’t want to see her go through that again.”

Clary’s eyes flew open. She felt her cheeks flush. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re implying,” she managed to say. “I have no interest—“

“I’m not blind,” Alec cut in. “I see the way you look at her.”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating,” Clary insisted, swallowing nervously.

“Yes, you do.”

They stared at each other for some seconds. Clary saw no accusation in his eyes, only understanding and a plead for something he desperately wanted – a guarantee of his sister’s wellbeing. She broke the eye contact and turned to inspect her hands.

“I do,” she agreed quietly. “But you have nothing to worry about. Even if I were to feel as you claim I do, Isabelle isn’t—she doesn’t think of me the same way. And knowing that, I would never pursue her against her will.”

“That’s good.” Alec clapped her on the shoulder gently. “Although, I’ve also seen the way she looks at you. If I were you, I’d perhaps reconsider before making snap judgements about her wants or intentions. She sometimes fails to see that people can’t read her as well as she’d like them to.” He took a deep breath, straightening his back. “Well, I’ll be on my way. I was promised a drink by a certain someone, who ought to keep their word.”

He left before Clary could say goodbye.

She stared after him in quiet shock. Isabelle didn’t… she wouldn’t. Alec must’ve read the situation wrong. Clary thought he must’ve been blinded by his love for his sister – maybe he only wanted to see her be happy, so much so that he saw infatuation where there was none.

She shook her head, huffing. Isabelle wasn’t like that. And even if she were, Clary was hardly worth getting worked up over. Isabelle was talented, gorgeous, kind hearted; worth so much more than Clary could ever hope to give her. Clary’s stomach squirmed uncomfortably. She was a mere painter, who’d spent every penny on her ticket to New York. Once she got there, she’d be practically broke.

Isabelle hadn’t mentioned it, but Clary got the impression that the Lightwood family wasn’t exactly struggling. She had an aspiring career as a singer, Clary could tell. She had he family to support her through it all. She had all the chances available.

Clary decided enough self-pity was enough, and headed back towards her room. As she turned the corner she collided with Jace, who began to laugh as soon as he noticed it was her.

“Clary.” He bowed mockingly. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

Clary chuckled, shaking her head. There was an easy air around Jace, which made him pleasant company. He didn’t seem to expect too much, or demand anything. It was just easy, and relaxed. Clary could picture the two of them being friends for a long time, should the stars align that way. “Someone might get the wrong picture,” she agreed.

“What’s there wrong about it?” Jace asked, the corner of his lips twitching as though he was holding back a smile. Then he got a knowing look in his eyes. “Oh, right. The wrong sibling.”

Clary understood he wasn’t referring to Alec, either, as the right one. She began to wonder if this was some kind a joke played between the brothers, to make her doubt herself and her friendship with Isabelle. She brushed the thought aside quickly; they weren’t that kind of people.

“For God’s sake.” Clary rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Not you, too.”

“Let me guess,” Jace started. He smirked lazily. “You met with Alec?”

Clary nodded. “We had some words,” she explained vaguely.

Jace laughed. “Well, that never bodes well. Let me take a guess – threats of bodily harm and financial instability for the rest of your life, should you harm a hair on Isabelle’s head?”

She hadn’t realised that had been an option, and wondered just how much power their family held – she didn’t think Alec would be one for empty threats. “Not quite,” she said. “Only that I be careful. I told him there’s no reason to worry – I won’t attempt something that I know won’t or can’t happen.”

Jace let out a long-suffering sigh, and glanced dramatically at the roof above them. “My,” he exclaimed, “don’t tell this will another case of needless longing.”

Clary frowned. _Needless_? But what she asked was, “Another?”

Jace nodded. He looked bemused, and sighed again. “I’m used to living with Alec. He met Magnus the first time three years ago – you can imagine what I’ve been through in those years. It was an endless stream of denial, secrets and horrible things said on all ends. They’ve been fighting a lot, recently. Alec told me Magnus wants for them to start anew in New York, and Alec… well, Alec’s never really known what he wants. I think he’s only recently started figuring it out.”

Clary could sympathise with that sentiment. She, herself, had always known she’d be an artist – but the rest of it had always been a massive question mark filled with doubt and hesitation. Where to live, with who, how, how long, why – a multitude of questions, none of which has certain answers, or answers at all. Clary had never done well without a steady ground beneath her feet.

She felt certain kind of pity towards Alec, though she might’ve guessed he didn’t want any of it. She doubted that the beginning for him and Magnus had been easy at all – or that it still was easy, now. It made her all the more proud, in a sense, of the fact that they were still here, today, trying to start fresh elsewhere.

“I don’t envy you,” she said aloud. “Nor Alec, or Magnus. But I fail to see the connection.”

“Oh, please,” Jace laughed. “Both of them were idiotic enough to believe for over a year that what they felt was one-sided. I’d implore you don’t waste quite that much time – you never know when it’s your last day. This world is full of surprises.”

“It’s not the same,” Clary argued. She didn’t know why she felt so defensive about this – it wasn’t as though what Jace said could change the facts. “Isabelle doesn’t—we’re not like Alec and Magnus. This is not some sort of a romance novel where things simply work out. And I don’t want to destroy a good friendship over something silly like this.”

“I suggest you talk to Isabelle,” Jace shrugged. “You never know what might happen. I know she’s—well, that’s not for me to say.” He glanced around them, lifting a brow. “You said you’d bumped into Alec – do you know where he went? I need to talk to him about something important.”

“He said something about drinks,” Clary told him. “With a _certain someone_.”

“Ah.” Jace pushed his hands into his pockets with a sigh. “Well, damn. I wouldn’t dream of interrupting _that_ , now that they’ve finally seemed to made up.” He raised a brow at Clary. “You up for drinks, too?”

“I’m not a day drinker,” she said dryly. “I think I’ll rather go see if I can paint something.”

Jace shrugged again. “Your loss,” he said lightly. “I’ll see you later, then. And talk to her!” He added over his shoulder with a knowing grin.

Clary shook her head. She didn’t understand the Lightwoods.

 

Clary sat on her bed, her sheets thrown aside. She’d cracked one of the windows open since the room had begun to feel suffocating to her. The curtains were calmly ruffling with the sea wind.

She had a blank canvas laid out in front of her, and she was mixing her colours when there was a gentle knock on the door.

“Clary?” Isabelle’s voice asked from the hallway. “Can I come in?”

Clary moved to open the door. She felt nervous, even though there was no reason to be. She blamed Alec and Jace for messing around with her head, planting ideas and thoughts there that only served to make her feel anxious.

She pulled the door open.

Isabelle was wearing loose trousers and what seemed to be a suit shirt borrowed from one of her brothers – it was a few sizes too large, and hung so that it left one of her shoulders exposed. The trousers were held up by dark suspenders.

Clary blinked at the outfit, her mouth suddenly dry. Isabelle quirked a brow, tilting her head. “That bad?” She asked, chuckling. “Knew I should have gone with a gown.”

“No,” Clary managed to choke out. She cleared her throat and stepped aside to let Isabelle in. “No, not at all bad. You look—good.”

It felt like a vast understatement, but Clary couldn’t think of adjectives to properly describe what she wanted to express.

Isabelle did a twirl, her hands spread as if to show off every aspect of the outfit. She stopped, facing Clary. “You look terrific, as always,” she pointed out, gesturing towards Clary. “I really do think green is your colour.”

Clary glanced down at her light green dress. “It’s from my mother,” she confessed. “Her friend made it for me as a birthday present when I turned eighteen. I’m… fond of it.”

Isabelle looked fond, as well. “It’s something to treasure, then,” she said. Only then did she notice the canvas laid out on the bed. “You’re painting?”

Clary nodded, and settled back down on the mattress. “It’s been a while,” she said. She continued mixing paints. “I’ve been surprisingly busy.”

Isabelle looked horrified. “I’m so sorry if I’ve kept you from doing what you love,” she said, sounding genuine. “It wasn’t my intention.”

“No, no,” Clary reassured her. “I don’t mind, truly. And you’re not disturbing me now, either, so don’t worry.” She gestured towards the couch with her brush. “You can sit down, if you want to. There should be books and some of my sketching pads on the table, if you’re interested.”

Isabelle trailed towards the couch and flopped down on it, sitting cross-legged. “Of course, I’m interested,” she said, like it was a given fact. “I only saw one picture you’d left out yesterday. Some man, I think.” She glanced at Clary with an odd expression. “A husband?”

Clary snorted, but the expression on Isabelle’s face made her heart jump. “Hardly. It was Simon, my friend. I’ve mentioned him.”

“I remember,” Isabelle said. She reached out for a sketch book, holding it in her hands like it was delicate. “Can I?”

Clary hummed in affirmation. She couldn’t get the right kind of red she wanted – this was more maroon than burgundy. She added a tiny bit of russet brown, which helped a little bit, but it still wasn’t quite what she had in her mind. She was awfully specific about which colours she used – it sometimes drove Simon crazy when she’d spend hours upon hours getting the specific kind of blue for a single sliver of the sky.

“That’s close enough,” he’d say, frustration creeping into his tone. “Isn’t it? It’s all blue, does it matter that much whether it’s the exact shade or not?”

And Clary would always shake her head. “It’s not what I see in my head,” she’d explain. “It’s not what this painting is supposed to have.”

Simon would always concede, grumbling about artists and their vices.

Clary was vaguely aware of Isabelle in the background, her figure a formless blob in her vision. She could hear her flipping the pages of the sketchbook from time to time; it seemed she took her time looking at each page respectively. For whatever reason, Clary didn’t feel nervous sharing her art with Isabelle. Perhaps it was because she’d heard her sing, already; showing her art was more of an equal trade, now. Or then it was for different reasons entirely, one’s Clary tried her best not to think of. She didn’t want to get her heart more broken that it was going to be, when they inevitably parted ways after arriving in New York.

Or maybe they’d remain as friends, but Clary didn’t know for how long she could do that. For how long she could pretend that what she felt wasn’t stronger than that. Her chest ached, and Clary bit her lip, forcing the thoughts down. _Not now_.

She began to fill in the faint outlines of a body on the canvas, curled up and lying on the ground. Her knees were drawn up and her hands were lying carelessly on either side of her. There would be a red flag underneath the figure, tainted with dirt and people’s footsteps, while the figure herself would be untouched. Her wings would reach from her back and outside the canvas, but they wouldn’t be normal wings; instead, they’d be crude and bony, with flesh stretching so thin you’d think it would break.

In the background, hell would be burning, hot and damaging. She wanted the painting to scream out the story of her nightmares, so that she wouldn’t have to explain them to anyone. She wanted the picture to tell what words never could.

It would take a longer amount time, Clary already knew. Months, most likely. It’d be the first proper piece she’d finish in New York, if all went well. It was one of those works she didn’t think she’d ever sell for the money. Sometimes, she put too much of herself into a painting to let it go.

“The resemblance is uncanny,” Isabelle suddenly said from the couch.

Clary looked up, and noticed her watching one of the pages with a small smile. “What?”

“You’ve drawn Alec,” Isabelle clarified. She turned the book so that Clary could see which drawing she was talking about. “It looks just like him.”

“Oh.” Clary bit her lip. She’d drawn it last night after getting back to her room, while the memory was still fresh in her mind. “I tried to imitate the look he gave to Magnus during dinner last night. He looked… peaceful. Certainly more peaceful than I’ve ever seen him.” She paused. “They’re good together, aren’t they?”

Isabelle traced her fingers across the picture. “Yes, they are. My brother, he… he sometimes forgets that he deserves to be happy, too. He occupies himself too much with what others are feeling. I suppose I do that, too – a family trait. But he looks happy, here,” she said quietly. “I’m glad. You’ve captured him well, I’m kind of amazed.”

“You can keep it, if you want to,” Clary offered. She felt like her heart was going to burst. If Isabelle preoccupied herself with what others were feeling, did she know already what Clary felt? Did she know, and purposefully spare her the pain of rejection, or the humiliation of mockery? Or was she oblivious about it, still?

“Really?” Isabelle looked at her, hesitant. She was still holding the sketch book like it was easily breakable glass – Clary didn’t think anyone had ever shown as much care for her works before, not in this way.

“Really,” Clary confirmed. If one sketch could make Isabelle happy, she’d gladly give it away. “Those are only sketches – I make new ones every single say. Besides, it means more to you than to me. I can always draw more – and he’s your brother.”

“Well, if you’re certain,” Isabelle mumbled. She tore the page away gently, and walked over to Clary, sitting by the edge of the bed. The mattress creaked slightly under her weight. She smiled, offering the drawing to her. “Sign it for me?”

Clary took the paper, eyeing it. Isabelle was right – Alec looked happy in it. “What do you want it to say?” Clary asked quietly.

“Whatever you want to,” Isabelle shrugged slightly. “I don’t mind.”

Clary took her pencil and scribbled on the bottom of the paper with slightly shaking hands. When she handed it back, Isabelle grinned at her, her eyes sparkling.

“Didn’t know you spoke French,” Isabelle said, smiling at the paper.

“I don’t,” Clary admitted. “At least, not well. But I’ve tried to study it.”

“The language of love,” Isabelle said dreamily. Her eyes locked with Clary’s. “Do you believe that?”

Clary swallowed nervously. “I don’t think—I think it’s beautiful, but there are far more beautiful things on Earth.”

“Like what?” Isabelle’s voice was quiet.

 _Like you_. “I don’t…” Clary let her sentence fade off. “Quite many things.”

Isabelle gave her a knowing look, but folded the paper. “Thank you,” she said. “This means a lot.”

“It’s not a problem,” Clary said hoarsely.

_Pour le voyage le plus important de Tous,_ the paper read. _De trouver la paix sur terre._

 

***

 

As Clary stepped into the dining hall the next morning, she found it desolate of her friends, safe for Magnus. He was sitting in a table for two by the windows, reading the newspaper. Before Clary could decide whether to ask to join him or not, Magnus glanced up and noticed her. He waved his hand slightly with a smile, and gestured for Clary to come closer.

She slipped into the seat opposite to him. Magnus was having coffee and plain toast, half-eaten. Clary asked for the same – she felt too nervous for anything more than that.

She didn’t know what it was, precisely, that was making her nervous. She’d been on edge the entire morning as she’d dressed up and tidied around her room, trying to make it not look like a bohemian boudoir. But she could guess where the anxiety coiling in her stomach stemmed from, and her guesses all revolved around Isabelle.

Clary had dreamt about her, last night. They’d been dancing waltz do the soft sounds of Isabelle’s singing, in a well-lit, nondescript space. Clary had woken up with a smile on her face, and then had felt guilty for doing so. She wasn’t supposed to dream about Isabelle.

Magnus broke her from her thoughts. “Good morning,” he said, sipping his coffee. “You slept well, I hope?” There was a knowing tilt to his voice.

Clary wondered if he could see through her that well, if she was truly that transparent. “Yes,” she said shortly. “Quite. And you?”

Magnus shrugged eloquently. “These last days have been… trying. But everything is settling on its rails now, thank god.” He glanced at Clary pointedly. “I’m sure you’ve talked to Alexander.”

Clary looked down at the table, swallowing nervously. “Your relationship isn’t any of my business,” she said. “But I have. He said that… that you’re important. That what you have is important. I’m sorry to have imposed on that in any way.”

Magnus extended his hand across the table. Clary looked up, and he withdrew it. “The eavesdropping business,” he said calmly, “is in the past, hm? It wasn’t right, but I forgive your curiosity, as does Alec. Moving on is a wonderful thing to do, I’ve come to find.”

He sounded genuine in his words. Clary allowed her heart beat to slow down and her shoulders to relax. “You’re both very good people, you know,” she said. “And for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’ve settled any disputes you might’ve had.”

Magnus waved his hand in dismissal. “Settled? No. But we are moving to a better direction, now. Alec and I, it’s…” He paused, looking for words. “It’s never been easy. Not because of me or him, necessarily, but because of a world that’s not quite ready for us yet. He’s internalised a lot of that, and working to undo the damage has been a process which has been taxing on both of us.” Magnus smiled, more to himself than Clary. “We both have issues to overcome, separately and together, but—we’ll get there. I appreciate your sentiment.”

“I’m sure things will turn out alright,” Clary said. She eyed her toast, suddenly not very hungry. “I wish…” But she didn’t know how to continue.

“It’s Isabelle, isn’t it?” Magnus supplied. At Clary’s sharp look, he lifted his hands up in surrender. “I’ve been around enough to know what young love looks like,” he said. “I see it in you, when you look at her. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Clary’s mouth pulled into a frown. “There’s plenty wrong with that.” She sighed, feeling the weight of her worries pressing down on her like a heavy blanket, suffocating. “It’s not complicated, really. I want her, she doesn’t want me. End of the story.”

Magnus titled his head in a considering way. “Have you asked her?”

“No,” Clary admitted. “But I don’t need to. I can tell you, there’s no reason for her to be invested in me in any other way than as a friend.”

“You can’t know unless you ask her,” Magnus said. “Is it scary? Most definitely. But it might have some benefits you can’t even predict.”

Clary shook her head. She knew Magnus was coming from a place of good intentions, but she’d had enough of people telling her she should take her chances. She wasn’t ready to tip her toe in when she might end up drowning. Simon called her brave, but she’d never felt like it. And she certainly didn’t feel brave about _this_.

“I’m not willing to risk a good friendship over something selfish like that,” she explained aloud. “It just wouldn’t do.”

Magnus hummed, finishing his coffee. “Do as you see fit,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to intervene. I’m only saying that you’re not the only one of you two who looks smitten.”

They finished their breakfast in silence. Clary’s thoughts ventured towards Isabelle, almost by their own accord.

She was unlike anyone Clary had met before. She had a presence that you couldn’t escape, but during the quieter moments, when it was just the two of them, she became serene and tangible in a way that made Clary’s heart ache because it was so close, yet so far away.

Isabelle was a soft person wrapped in layers of cumulative hard edges that she used to keep people at a distance. But she’d let Clary slip by, get close. And now Clary, in all selfishness, wanted to get even closer, wanted to touch and feel and taste—and she hated herself for it, but at the same time, she couldn’t shake these thoughts off.

And they weren’t harming anyone, were they, except for Clary herself? She was the one poising herself for inevitable heartbreak by imagining a future she couldn’t ever have.

She couldn’t bring herself to finish her toast. Magnus gave her a pitying look, and a sad smile, before leaving to presumably find Alec.

Clary sat alone by the table as her coffee turned cold.

 

Back in her room, Clary stared at the painting she’d started the day before. The winged figure bared a slight resemblance to Isabelle, she realised, and then felt faintly dizzy. Had she become so ridiculous in her enamourment that her subconscious had implemented her feelings on to her canvas? It didn’t seem too far-fetched.

Clary painted on top of the existing shadow of a face, deliberately making it look as little like Isabelle as she could. Faint and light brows, rounder, green eyes. An almost longing look, glancing up at the skies—

With a huff of frustration, Clary put her brush down. No matter what she did, she couldn’t quite get the image of Isabelle out of her mind. She wondered where she was, what she was doing. Potentially enjoying a late breakfast with her siblings. Maybe reading, one of those silly science book she seemed to enjoy for reasons beyond Clary’s understanding. Was she thinking about Clary? Did she also feel anxious to the pit of her stomach when she did?

Clary put her painting aside, annoyed with herself. She had to stop mulling this issue over and over, it wasn’t going anywhere. She and Isabelle, that is. They weren’t. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t.

Never before had Clary felt this way about someone. She’d thought, once, that maybe she and Simon would become something, that they’d get married and start a family and that would that. But it had quickly become more than obvious that Simon was only a friend to her, and would always remain as such.

Had she ever been something more to Simon? He’d never said anything to imply as much – and in fact, before Clary’s departure he’d been more invested in the band and Raphael than anything romantic. Clary frowned, sitting on the edge of her bed.

Raphael. Were they… had he and Simon been…?

She shook her head. The idea was ridiculous. Raphael seemed more interested in the bottom of his shoe than in romance, and Simon was—well, he was Simon. He’d never gone out with anyone, if Maureen didn’t count. That had been, according to him, a quick summer romance, born out of the escaped confides of the city.

Clary stood up and moved to the table where she’d left her sketch book. She sunk down on the couch, taking the book in her hands.

The first pages were still from England. The park near their house, birds feeding on the ground and people milling about, linked by the elbows. Next followed their house itself, on the outside. Then the sitting room, her mother’s room, Clary’s room. Her window and her paintings and everything else she’d left behind in her rush to escape her mother’s sickness and her own small world.

Something got stuck in Clary’s throat at the thought of her mother. She wondered how she was doing – was she getting better, by some miracle? Or was she already dead, consumed by her tuberculosis? Clary had listened to her hacking cough day in and day out, and she found, to her confusion, that she missed it. It had been a reminder that Jocelyn was still alive, even if barely.

Now she didn’t even have that. She had nothing, no way of communicating back to England to ask how everything was going.

Clary flipped the page, and found herself staring at a frowning Simon. Another page, another Simon. Then, the smudged over painting of the man from the library. And Isabelle, smiling at her.

Clary closed the sketchbook with a resounding _thud_. She swallowed nothing, feeling worse than before.

 

Dinner time came quicker than Clary had expected. She slipped into her only dark gown, a deep violet dress with puffy sleeves and rhinestones decorating the neckline and the hems of the sleeves. It felt too heavy on her, but Clary assumed she’d be back after dinner to change out of it, so it wasn’t enough of a bother to look for another dress.

Isabelle was waiting for her outside of the dining hall. She looked gorgeous in her pale dress with gold decorations, her hair open and flowing down her back in soft, open curls. Clary gulped at the sight of her, her heart staggering. Then she forced herself to calm down.

“Hey,” Isabelle said, smiling at Clary. “I thought I’d wait for you – the rest of the group already went to sit. They’re impatient and rude, it seems.”

“Well, thank God you’re not,” Clary laughed. “Really, thank you for waiting. It’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Isabelle said over her shoulder as they made their way across the dining hall. “The things we do for friends, hm?”

“Yes,” Clary agreed. Her mouth felt dry. “For friends.”

They found the right table soon, in the middle of the hall. They had saved Clary and Isabelle two seats between Alec and Jace. Clary sat with Alec on her left, Isabelle on her right, and felt almost cornered. She realised that Magnus was sitting to the left of Alec, his chair inconspicuously close to Alec’s. Clary smiled to herself.

They talked whilst dining, about everything and nothing at all. Clary didn’t say much; she found the presence of Isabelle next to her acutely distracting. Isabelle kept glancing at her out of the corner of her eye, and smiling softly. At one point, Clary let her hand rest on the table. Soon, Isabelle followed, the backs of their hands touching. Clary’s breath hitched – she covered up for it by taking a sip of her drink.

She’d opted for white wine this night. It rolled down her tongue smoothly, but it was just bitter enough to give her some restraint as to how much exactly it was that she was having. After three glasses, she decided to change into water.

They were all halfway through their dessert when Isabelle leaned closer, a wisp of her hair touching Clary’s shoulder. Clary tensed without meaning to, her fingers clutching her tiny fork.

“Are you up for drinks after dinner?” Isabelle asked quietly, her breath on Clary’s skin.

Clary nodded, finding herself unable to produce a verbal response. Isabelle leaned back and smiled at her, apparently satisfied.

Clary looked at her plate and found that she’d accidentally cut her cake piece in half.

 

Clary and Isabelle said goodbyes to the rest of their group after dinner. Alec shot Clary an amused look, before Magnus touched his elbow slightly and the two of them vanished into the upper deck. Jace have her a weary smile, and then retired to his room for some light reading before bed. Catarina announced that she was going to the library to see if they had any books on anatomy.

Clary was left with Isabelle, who turned to look at her, grinning.

“Daiquiris?” She asked, nodding her head towards the lounge.

“Yeah,” Clary agreed. Her heart was beginning to stammer again. “Just a few, yes.”

The lounge was comfortably warm and not too crowded. They found seats near the door, in a relatively quiet spot.

They ordered daiquiris, and then new ones, then aviators, and silver fizzes, and gin bumps. Clary’s head was swimming by the time she was finished her last drink. She was aware of Isabelle’s ankle, brushing against hers. She was aware of the pit in her stomach, and the want for more. She was aware of everything around her, blurry though some of it may be.

“Let’s go explore,” Isabelle suggested.

Clary looked at her, brows raised. “Explore?”

Isabelle leaned closer, setting her empty glass on the table next to them. “Explore the ship,” she explained. “I’m willing to bet that there are so many places we’ve never, ever seen here. Do _you_ know what’s below the second- and first-class accommodations? I don’t. And I would love to know.”

Clary mulled the thought over. The rational and smart thing would’ve been to go back to her room, sleep this off and then go exploring the next day. There were still days left of the trip. But the irrational part of her brain, the part that was aware of Isabelle staring at her intensively and placing a hand on her knee – that part did not care for what was smart. That part did not care at all.

“That sounds brilliant,” Clary said. She stood up, staggering only slightly on her feet. “If you would be so kind?” She asked, offering her hand to Isabelle.

Isabelle took it and let herself be pulled up, grinning all the while.

They walked through the hallways until they found stairs leading down.

“After you,” Isabelle said, and Clary began climbing the stairs down. Her dress was feeling heavier by the seconds, the velvet pulling her shoulders down. She stumbled only once, and Isabelle’s hand was on her shoulder instantly, ready to steady her.

They reached the first- and second-class rooms. Then they found stairs leading even further down.

Clary glanced at Isabelle, suddenly weary. “Should we?” She asked. “We don’t know what’s down there.”

But Isabelle was already taking the stairs, lifting the hems of her dress to make walking easier. “We can’t know unless we see for ourselves,” she called to Clary whilst descending further and further down.

Clary followed her. She would’ve followed her anywhere.

It was the machinery room. Isabelle walked down the hallway, spinning in circles and looking around her in awe. Clary hurried to catch up with her, and they continued further together. There was no one around, it seemed – Clary wondered if there were break hours for the people working here, and how extensive they were.

“Do you think people like working here?” She wondered aloud. “Working, while we live our lives to the fullest up there.”

Isabelle stopped; Clary followed her example.

“I think it’d be horrible to work here,” she said. “It’s so hot, isn’t it?”

She was right – Clary was nearly sweating underneath her dress. She rolled her sleeves up as far as she could. “It’s very warm,” she agreed.

Isabelle looked at her strangely, her head tilted a little. She smiled. “Aren’t you glad that we came here?” She asked. “This is the reality behind the beauty I talked of before.”

“Yes,” Clary said. She locked eyes with Isabelle. “You—you’re beautiful.”

Without saying a word, Isabelle stepped closer to her. Clary felt her breath hitch, and her pulse tighten. Why had she said that? What an idiotic thing to say, and to Isabelle of all people—

“Clary,” Isabelle said quietly. She took another step, and Clary stepped backwards – her back hit the wall.

“Yes?” Clary asked, her eyes never leaving Isabelle’s.

“Would it be completely outlandish, do you think, for me to kiss you?”

Clary blinked, and swallowed. “I—I don’t…” She forced herself to take a breath as Isabelle stepped closer, so close. “No,” she breathed out. “Not outlandish at all.”

Her heart was stammering like a drum, and she was still sweating, and then. And then, Isabelle closed the small space between them, her lips pressing against Clary’s. She tasted of apples and alcohol, Clary registered absently. Her hands wrapped around Clary’s wrists, holding her in place as she pressed even closer, their noses brushing. She pulled away, only a fraction, and Clary—

Clary had never found herself more speechless in her life.

“Would it be even more outlandish to suggest that we go to your room?” Isabelle whispered, pressing small kisses along Clary’s jawline.

“I think,” Clary managed, “that that would be the only rational thing to do, right now.”

They pried themselves apart for the walk back to Clary’s room. They passed some people, a few of whom looked at them suspiciously, but no one they knew.

Clary fumbled with her key, feeling the weight of the atmosphere and the drinks on her. She finally managed to get the door open, and they walked in. No sooner had she locked the door when Clary found herself pressed up against it by Isabelle.

They kissed again; Clary’s eyes fell shut as Isabelle moved her hands to her waist, holding her gently.

“Get me out of this goddamn dress,” Clary mumbled, opening her eyes.

“With pleasure,” Isabelle replied. Clary could hear more than see the smile on her face.

Isabelle’s hands travelled to her back and began unlacing her dress. Clary took a step forward, forcing Isabelle to stumble backwards, and towards her bed. They walked like that until the back of Isabelle’s knees hit the bedframe, and she sat down. Clary slipped out of her dress, letting it drop to the floor.

“Seems a bit unfair that you’re still wearing that,” she whispered, tugging at the shoulders of Isabelle’s gown.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Isabelle agreed, smiling. “Why don’t you help me with it?”

Clary did. They stumbled on to her bed, Isabelle holding herself up by her elbows above Clary. Clary smiled at her, leaning up to catch her in a kiss.

“Is it ridiculous to say that I think I’ve quite fallen for you?” Clary hummed, her hands resting on Isabelle’s waist as she lowered herself down, trailing kisses on Clary’s neck, collarbone, further and further down.

“Not at all,” Isabelle mumbled back. “I do believe it’s quite a mutual feeling, dear.”

 

***

 

Clary woke up in the middle of the night with a dreadful feeling in her stomach. Isabelle was asleep next to her, her arm curled around Clary’s stomach, holding her tight. She looked peaceful; there was a small smile on her face.

Clary frowned at the ceiling, her eyes flickering. Something felt wrong, like she’d woken up to something but didn’t know what. It was a fleeting feeling, a sense of misplacement. Maybe she’d had a nightmare, and had forgotten about it. It happened, sometimes.

Though why she’d have nightmares _now_ was beyond Clary—

The ship shook, the floor trembling and something screeching, and Clary realised what it had been that woke her. Something had happened to the ship, something bad. Clary’s stomach surged as panic took hold of her. What had happened? What _could_ have happened?

She sat up in the dark, her head pounding with a headache. Clary shook Isabelle gently, to stir her awake.

“Isabelle?” She whispered. “Isabelle, wake up, something’s happening—“

There was loud banging on the door. Isabelle woke up beside her, blinking blearily.

“Clary?” She asked. “What’s—“

The banging got more insistent. Clary slipped out of bed, her sheet wrapped around her. She opened the door to find a woman on the other side, looking like she’d just recently woken up as well. There was something about her expression – caught between disbelief and horror – that made Clary’s chest tighten.

“What’s happened?” Clary asked, blocking the woman from seeing in to her room and noticing Isabelle.

“The ship,” the woman said. Her voice was trembling. “The ship, they think—they think that it’s sinking.”

Clary blinked at her and felt her stomach drop. “What?” She asked, breathlessly. “No, it can’t, it’s—“

“Darling,” the woman cut her off, looking desperate, “get to the main deck as fast as you can. Take everything you need with you and get to a lifeboat – and do it now.” Without saying another word, she disappeared further down the hall, knocking on the next door over.

Clary closed her door. Her breathing was becoming shallow, and too fast. She turned around to look at Isabelle. Their eyes met in the dark of the room, both panicked. For a split second, neither moved a muscle.

Then Isabelle jumped out of bed and slipped her dress back on, tying the laces shut as fast as she could. “I’ve got to go find Alec and Jace,” she mumbled under her breath, working on the dress. “I’ve got to—I have to go find them, do you understand?”

“Yes,” Clary said. Her throat felt as though she’d swallowed sand. “Yes, of course I understand, I—“

Isabelle finished dressing up. Her hands hovered near Clary, hesitant. She leaned closer to kiss her, briefly, before pulling back. “I’ll meet you later,” she said shakily. “Promise me, Clare, _promise me_.”

Clary was gripping her by the upper arms, trembling slightly. “I promise,” she vowed. “I promise, Isabelle, I promise, now just _go_ and find them.”

Isabelle left without another word, the door slamming shut after her. Clary’s fingertips tingled the touch of her skin, still, as she stood alone in the dark of her room, trying to breathe.

The ship was sinking. The _ship_ was sinking, the ship was _sinking_ , _the_ ship, the Titanic, the unsinkable—it was sinking. Clary felt tears prickle in the corners of her eyes but the blinked them away and forced herself into action.

She picked the first dress she could find and slipped it on, not minding the shoulder that kept slipping. She took the smallest case she could find, a briefcase she’d used for her drawings, and stuffed her sketchbook and some brushes there. She eyed the unfinished painting, laying on the floor, and left it there. She couldn’t fit in in, there was no way.

Clary made her way to the upper deck, through the chaos of people floundering every other way. Everyone seemed to be talking at the same time, some panicked yelling rising above the rest. Clary pushed through the crowds, until she could breathe the night air, her breath turning into puffs in the cold.

They were preparing the lifeboats. Someone was yelling about women and children, but most seemed to be in too much of a shock to do anything.

Clary felt her pulse in her throat, could feel her head pounding, could feel her heart breaking apart at the thought of leaving Isabelle behind.

She closed her eyes. She heard the people talking, and the band playing, and the cracks as the ship was presumably torn apart by something—

The sound was enough to force her to move. She walked clumsily towards the first lifeboat she could see. Her legs seemed to be made of stone.

“Get in, get in, get in,” a man was repeating in a monotone voice. His eyes locked with hers for a second, seemingly not registering anything before they slid past her. “Get in, get in, get—“

Clary climbed aboard, clutching her briefcase to her chest. She moved to the back of the boat, where she was the only one on her row. With her in the boat there were a few more women, four, it seemed, and two more with their children. One of them, a small girl, was crying hysterically.

“Mommy,” she sobbed, “mommy, are we going to die, mommy, mommy—“

Clary closed her eyes. She felt like vomiting.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat in the boat for before it was lowered, slowly, to the sea beneath them. Clary opened her eyes, and found that she was still alone in her row. One more man had joined their boat, and he was sitting in front of her, unmoving and staring at a spot somewhere near her knees without blinking.

“Wait,” Clary said. “Wait!” She yelled up at the deck, “wait, there’s still space, there’s loads of space here!”

“It’s no good,” the man mumbled, so quietly that Clary barely caught it.

“What do you mean?” She asked, breathlessly. “Surely they should put as many people as they can in here.”

“It’s no good,” the man repeated. “We’re doomed. This is it.”

He said nothing more, even though Clary asked him further questions. Eventually she gave up. Their boat reached the surface of the sea, and they were left there, floating in the ocean.

“We need to row,” a woman piped up from the opposite side of the boat to Clary. “Row, we’ve got to row or the ship will suck us all in with it.”

They rowed. They rowed as far as they could. Clary’s arms were aching, and her back felt as though it was about to crack. As she was about to suggest that they were far enough, the lights on the ship flickered and then shut off.

Complete silence followed.

Clary swallowed in panic. Isabelle. And Alec, and Jace, and Magnus, and Catarina – were they still aboard? Had they made it to a lifeboat?

The Titanic was slowly sinking, its back plunging into the dark water. Clary could see faintly against the outline of the sky that people were jumping out of the ship, across the rails. A quiet sob racked its way through her, and she pressed a hand over her mouth.

“This can’t be happening,” a woman said, looking at the ship as well. “This is not—this is not happening, is it? This must be a nightmare.”

“Even nightmares couldn’t conjure up something as horrid as this,” another replied weakly.

Clary agreed. This was worse than a nightmare. There were no words for this.

They watched for what must’ve been hours as the ship sank and then cracked and sank once more. They saw some lifeboats around them, but not enough. Not nearly enough to have accommodated everyone aboard.

 

It was cold, but Clary barely registered it. She was hugging her frame, curled in on herself, her briefcase now on the seat next to her. The man in front of her – Carl, he’d introduced – wasn’t moving. Clary frowned at him. His lips had gone blue.

“Carl?” She asked quietly. The sound felt as loud as a bullet. “Carl?”

“He’s gone,” another woman said numbly. “It’s no use.”

Clary swallowed, trembling violently from the cold. “He can’t be,” she argued. “He was just—we were just talking. He can’t be gone. He has a wife and a daughter in New York, he can’t be gone.”

The woman looked at Clary with an expressionless face. Her skin was pale against the dark ocean around them. She had her arms wrapped around another woman, trying to share any possible body heat. “It doesn’t matter.” She looked away, at the waves lapping quietly against the sides of the boat. “Nature doesn’t care. He’s gone.”

Clary looked at Carl. His eyes were still open, looking at the bottom of the boat. Clary swallowed the emotions piling up her throat and forced her eyes shut. But the darkness behind her lids soon became unbearable, and she instead tilted her head to look at the stars above.

It seemed like a lifetime ago when she’s stood with Isabelle on the decks, looking at those same stars that were now blinking at her. Was Isabelle looking at them, now? Was she even still in this world, or had she joined the stars, become one with the constellations?

Clary couldn’t stand the feeling on not knowing. She’d never coped well with the unknown, and now…

She looked down abruptly, glancing around her. There was the sound of distant yelling, coming from somewhere near them – it was followed by the loud ringing of a bell.

“People,” someone said, sounding tense and hopeful at the same time. “It’s people, they’re looking for us, they have to be.”

“Do we have a bell?” Clary asked, looking about the boat. “Quick, someone find it.”

It was hidden in a box underneath one of the bench rows. Someone handed the bell over to Clary, who began shaking it vehemently. “We’re here!” She yelled in between rounds of shaking. Her voice sounded hoarse. “We’re here, please, we—SOS, someone, anyone.”

She only stopped when a small boat appeared through the mist hanging above the sea surface, breaking through it. Clary’s chest went empty, before filling with such an intense sense of relief she thought she might pass out. She felt dizzy, and cold, and desperate – but they weren’t alone.

The boat made its way next to them. A man leaned closer to them across the gap, holding on to his top hat. “There’s a ship coming,” he told them without introducing himself in any way. “A bigger ship, it’s coming to rescue anyone alive and take us to New York. We need to gather around; follow us, please.”

They rowed in tandem with the other boat. After ten minutes or so, they reached a congregation of the rest of the lifeboats; Clary counter up to fifteen, maybe twenty of them in total. They all milled about silently.

Clary tried to scan for familiar faces, but it was too dark and the boats were too far away. Her heart contracted uncomfortably. It was hard to breathe. The little girl in their boat hadn’t said a word since they’d hit water; her mother was now singing a quiet lullaby in a broken voice.

It took the rescue ship another half an hour to arrive. All the passenger from the life boats were slowly lifted aboard on the deck, where people had gathered to gape at them, talking in hushed tones.

Someone handed Clary a blanket. It took her a few seconds to realise that she was meant to wrap it around herself. The feeling of a sturdy deck beneath her feet was like heaven as she stood amidst the survivors, trembling and too shocked to cry.

It hit her a few seconds later.

Isabelle.

Clary scanned the crowd around her and began to push through it, turning people around and looking over their shoulders. Their faces seemed to melt into each other, masses of pale skin and terrified and numb eyes. Clary stopped, turning around in a circle, trying in desperation to see her, to know that she’d made it—

A hand touched her shoulder. Clary turned around; she barely had the time to register what was in front of her before Isabelle threw her arms around her, her nose pressing against Clary’s shoulder.

Breathless and feeling like pure air, Clary wrapped her own arms around Isabelle’s waist, shaking.

 _Alive, alive, alive,_ played on a loop through Clary’s mind. She breathed in the smell of Isabelle’s hair, felt the touch of her fingers on her skin, could feel Isabelle’s breathing on her neck.

“You’re alive,” Clary managed. “You’re really here, you’re here—”

“I’m here,” Isabelle promised, her voice muffled. “We’re all here, we made it.”

“Alec? Jace?” Clary asked.

“All of them,” Isabelle confirmed.

Clary let out the breath she’d been holding since the ship had begun to sink.

 

***

 

“I thought maybe mahogany,” Isabelle said, eyeing the empty space in the middle of their living room. “Or is that too tacky, do you think?”

Clary shrugged. She was sitting on a plush red armchair, her feet crossed. The house felt particularly hot that day; but then, they live in the outskirts of a dessert. Her white dress didn’t feel cool enough, despite the light material.

All the windows were open, but even the breeze blowing in felt warm. The curtains flapped gently in the wind.

“Maybe a little tacky,” Clary agreed. “But why is that a bad thing?”

Isabelle tilted her head, not taking her eyes off the spot where the table would be. “You’re right,” she said. “I think we should go with mahogany. Carvings, yes or no?”

“Depends on the carvings.” Clary leaned her head against the backrest of the arm chair, feeling exhausted. She closed her eyes. “I suppose I could do them.”

“Yes,” Isabelle said absently. “You are very good with your hands, after all.”

A lazy grin formed on Clary’s face. “As you well know,” she remarked.

There was a loud series of knocks on the front door. Clary’s eyes flew open.

“It’s probably Alec and Magnus,” Isabelle said, glancing in the direction of the door. “Would you be a dear and answer?”

Clary walked through the spacious house – too spacious for two people – and into the entrance hall. She could see the faint outline of two figures through the glass door, standing side by side, their arms pressed against each other.

Magnus greeted her with a bright grin and a bottle of whiskey. “This is the tradition in the Wild West, yes?”

“I tried to stop him,” Alec said apologetically.

Clary accepted the bottle with a small smile, turning it around in her hands. “No, it’s very thoughtful,” she mused. “Thank you, really. We appreciate it.”

“What do we appreciate?” Isabelle appeared behind her, placing her hand on the small of Clary’s back. She peered over her shoulder at the label on the bottle. “Oh, Old Forester. How the hell did you get a hold of this?”

Magnus smirked at them. “I have connections,” he said in a way which explained precisely nothing.

Next to him, Alec rolled his eyes. “Something as small as nationwide prohibition won’t stop an alcoholic.”

Magnus shot him a dry look. “Says you.”

“We’ll be sure to preserve this,” Clary cut in. She glanced at her pocket watch. “What time are Jace and Catarina getting here? Simon said he and Raphael wouldn’t make it before two.”

“Catarina promised to be here by twelve, and Jace made vague plans around the same time,” Alec said. “But knowing Jace, he’ll be at least an hour late.”

They all moved to the living room. Magnus and Alec sat down on the couch; Alec left his hands on his knee, palm up, and soon enough Magnus entwined their fingers. Isabelle and Clary settled on the two remaining arm chairs, Clary’s slouched sideways so that her feet rested on Isabelle’s lap. The bottle of whiskey stood in the middle of them, in the place where the table should have been.

“We were thinking mahogany,” Isabelle said, eyeing the bottle. “With carvings.”

“Sounds marvellous,” Magnus said, nodding slowly. “Although maybe a little tacky?”

“Just tacky enough, we think.” Isabelle began to gently massage Clary’s ankles, tilting her head to give her a warm look. “We are kind of tacky, aren’t we?”

“Definitely,” Clary agreed. Isabelle looked as gorgeous now as she had when they’d first met, some seven years ago. Her eyes still twinkled the same way. “But there’s nothing wrong with tacky.”

By two o’clock the living room was filled to the brim with their friends, all lounging around with a glass of whiskey. Clary looked around her, at the smiling faces and crinkled eyes, her chest filled with nothing but love.

She considered herself the luckiest damn woman on earth.


End file.
